TO 
MY  WIFE 


A^A 


.^    r^  I--4/  f^  \J  r^ 


I 


CONTENTS 


YOUTH:  A  NARRATIVE  ....  3^ 
HEART  OF  DARKNESS  ....  51 
THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER      .         .         .    18T 


YOUTH:    A    NARRATIVE 


YOUTH 


This   could  have  occurred  nowhere    but    in    Snglandt^ 

where  men  and  sea  interpenetrate,  so  to  speak — ^the  scat 
entering  into  the  Hfe  of  most  men,  and  the  men  know- 
ing something  or  everything  about  the  sea,  in  the  w&y: 
of  amusement,  of  travel,  or  of  bread-winning. 

We  were  sitting  round  a  mahogany  table  that  refledtecf 
the  bottle,  the  claret-glasses,  and  our  faces  as  we  leaned 
on  our  elbows.  There  was  a  director  of  companies,  aisi 
accountant,  a  lawyer,  Marlow^^  and  myself^.  The  direc- 
tor had  been  a  Conway  boy,  the  accountant  had  servwl 
four  years  at  sea,  the  lawyer — a  fine  crusted  Tory,  Higfei 
Churchman,  the  best  of  old  fellows,  the  soul  of  honor — 
had  been  chief  officer  in  the  P.  &  O.  service  in  the  good 
old  days  when  mail-boats  were  square-rigged  at  least  earn 
two  masts,  and  used  to  come  down  the  China  Sea  before 
a  fair  monsoon  with  stun'-sails  set  alow  and  aloft.  ^Wee^ 
all  began  life  in  the  merchant  service.  Between  the  five 
of  us^hefe'was  the  strong  bond  of  the  sea,  and  also  the 
fellowship  of  the  craft,  which  no  amount  of  enthusiasn** 
for  yachting,  cruising,  and  so  on  can  give,  since  one  «!& 
only  the  amusement  of  life  and  the  other  is  life  itself^ 

Mariow  (at  least  I  think  that  is  how  he  spelt  his  name)^ 
lold  the  story,  or  rather  the  chronicle,  of  a  voyage: 

'*  Yes,  I  have  seen  a  little  of  the  Eastern  seas ;  but  wfeyftfe 
^  remember  best  is  my  first  voyage  there.     You  felkswsu 


"  ;  ;•';  x; * ..*  *: :  ..:.•••.  -^o U  T  H 

know  there  are  those  voyages  that  seem  ordered  for  tha 
illustration  of  life,  that  might  stand  for  a  symbol  of 
existence.  You  fight,  work,  sweat,  nearly  kill  yourself, 
sometimes  do  kill  yourself,  trj'ing  to  accomplish  some- 
thing— ^and  you  can't.  Not  from  any  fault  of  yours. 
You  simply  can  do  nothing,  neither  great  nor  little — 
not  a  thing  in  the  world — not  even  marry  an  old  maid,  or 
get  a  wretched  600-ton  cargo  of  coal  to  its  port  of  desti- 
nation. 

"  It  was  altogether  a  memorable  affair.  It  was  my 
first  voyage  to  the  East,  and  my  first  voyage  as  second 
mate;  it  was  also  my  skipp^er's_iirst  command.  You'll 
admit  it  was  time.  He  was  sixty  if  a  day ;  a  little  man, 
with  a  broad,  not  very  straight  back,  with  bowed  shoul- 
ders and  one  leg  more  bandy  than  the  other,  he  had  that 
queer  twisted-about  appearance  you  see  so  often  in  men 
who  work  in  the  fields.  He  had  a  nut -cracker  face — chin 
and  nose  trying  to  come  together  over  a  sunlven  mouth — 
and  it  was  framed  in  iron- gray  fluffy  hair,  that  looked 
like  a  chin  strap  of  cotton-wool  sprinkled  with  coal-dust. 
An^The  Had  blue  eyes^in  that  old  face  of  his,  which  v^ere 
amazingly  like  a  boy's,  with  that  candid  expression  some 
quite  common  men  preserve  to  the  end  of  their  da^s  by 
a  rare  internal  gift  of  simplicity  of  heart  and  rectitude 
of  soul.  What  induced  him  to  accept  me  was  a  wonder. 
I  had  come_out_p^_a,_£mck^ustralian  clipper,  where  I 
had  been  third  officer,  and  he  seemed  to  have  a  prejudice 
against  crack  clippers  as  aristocratic  and  high-toned. 
He  said  to  me,  *  You  know,  in  this  ship  you  will  have  to 
work.'     I  said  I  had  to  work  in  every  ship  I  had  ever 

14] 


YOUTH 

been  in.  *  Ah,  but  this  is  different,  and  jou  gentlemen 
out  cf  them  big  ships ;  ...  but  there !  I  dare  say  you 
will  do.     Join  to-morrow.' 

"I  joined  to-morrow.  It  was  twenty-two  years  ago; 
And  I  was  just  twenty.  How  time  passes !  It  was  one 
of  thle  happiest  days  of  my  life.  Fancy !  Second  mate 
for  the  first  time — a  really  responsible  officer !  I  wouldn't 
have  thrown  up  my  new  billet  for  a  fortune.  The  mate 
looked  me  over  carefully.  He  was  also  an  old  chap,  but 
of  another  stamp.  He  had  a  Roman  nose,  a  snow-white, 
long  beard,  and  his  nam.e  was  Mahon,  but  he  insisted  that 
it  sliould  be  pronounced  Mann.  He  was  well  connected ; 
yet  there  was  something  wrong  with  his  luck,  and  he 
had  never  got  on. 

"  As  to  the  captain,  he  had  been  for  years  in  coasters, 
then  in  the  Mediterranean,  and  last  in  the  West  Indian 
trade.  He  had  never  been  round  the  Capes.  He  could 
just  write  a  kind  of  sketchy  hand,  and  didn't  care  for 
writing  at  all.  Both  were  thorough  good  seamen  of 
course,  and  between  those  two  old  chaps  I  felt  like  a 
small  boy  between  two  grandfathers. 

"  The  ship  also  was  old.  Her  name  was  the  Judea. 
Queer  name,  isn't  it?  She  belonged  to  a  man  Wilmer, 
Wilcox — some  name  like  that ;  but  he  has  been  bankrupt 
and  dead  these  twenty  years  or  more,  and  his  name  a^'t 
matter.  She  had  been  laid  up  in  Shadwell  basin  for  ever 
so  long.  You  can  imagine  her  state.  She  was  all  rust, 
dust,  grime — soot  aloft,  dirt  on  deck.  To  me  it  was 
like  coming  out  of  a  palace  into  a  ruined  cottage.  She 
was  about  400  tons,  had  a  primitive  windlass,  woode» 

[  5  ] 


YOUTH 

l&tdi&s  ^  ^^  itK>rs  not  a  bit  of  brass  about  her,  and  a 
liig  square  stern.  There  was  on  it,  below  her  name  in 
hig  letters,  a  lot  of  scroll  work,  with  the  gilt  off,  and  some 
J  «ort  of  a  coat  of  arms,  with  the  motto  '  Do  or  Die  '  under- 
/Tjaeath.  I  remember  it  took  my  fancy  immensely.  There 
was  a  touch  of  romance  in  it,  something  that  made  me 
love  the  old  thing — something  that  appealed  to  jny 
;yfmth! 

**  We  left  London  in  ballast — sand  ballast — to  load  a 
gagji^of  coal  in  a  norUiern_jgort  f or  Bankok.  Bankok ! 
1  thrilled.  I  had  been  six  years  at  sea,  but  had  only  seen 
Mdboume  and  Sydney,  very  good  places,  charming 
fiSaces  in  their  way — but  Bankok ! 

**  We  worked  out  of  the  Thames  under  canvas,  with  a 
]North  Sea  pilot  on  board.  His  name  was  Jermyn,  and 
lac  dodged  all  day  long  about  the  galley  drying  his  hand- 
kerchief before  the  stove.  Apparently  he  never  slept. 
He  was  a  dismal  man,  with  a  perpetual  tear  sparkling 
«.l  the  end  of  his  nose,  who  either  had  been  in  trouble,  or 
-was  in  trouble,  or  expected  to  be  in  trouble — couldn't  be 
h&ppy  unless  something  went  wrong.  He  mistrusted 
jmy  youth,  my  common-sense,  and  my  seamanship,  and 
iraaaie  a  point  of  showing  it  in  a  hundred  little  ways.  I 
Jare  say  he  was  right.  It  seems  to  me  I  knew  very  little 
tlien,  and  I  know  not  much  more  now ;  but  I  cherish  a 
liate  for  that  Jermyn  to  this  day. 

**We  were  a  week  working  up  as  far  as  Yarmouth 
Hoads,  and  then  we  got  into  a  gale — the  famous  October 
gale  of  twenty-two  years  ago.  It  was  wind,  lightning, 
^kfeet,  snow,  and  a  terrific  sea.    We  were  flying  light,  and 

[6] 


YOUTH 

you  may  imagine  how  bad  it  was  when  I  tell  you  Wfi  feawi 
sniashed  bulwarks  and  a  flooded  deck*  On  the  s^xsmi^. 
night  she  shifted  her  ballast  into  the  lee  bow»  astfJl  lijr 
that  time  we  had  been  blown  off  somewhere  on  the  DcsggjKS- 
Bank.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  go  below  iM^ 
sliovels  and  try  to  right  her,  and  there  we  were  m  thsJt. 
vast  hold,  gloomy  like  a  cavern,  the  tallow  dips  stu«k 
and  flickering  on  the  beams,  the  gale  howling  above,  tbc 
ship  tossing  about  like  mad  on  her  side;  there  we  all 
were,  Jermyn,  the  captain,  everyone,  hardly  able  to  keep 
our  feet,  engaged  on  that  gravedigger's  work,  and  try- 
ing to  toss  shovelfuls  of  wet  sand  up  to  windward*  At 
every  tumble  of  tlie  ship  you  could  see  vaguely  in  tiic- 
dim  light  men  falling  down  with  a  great  flourish  of  sImmt- 
ek.  One  of  the  ship's  boys  (we  had  two),  impressed  hy 
the  weirdness  of  the  scene,  wept  as  if  his  heart  w©iiM 
break.  We  could  hear  him  blubbering  somewhere  in  ^bsst 
shadows. 

**  On  the  third  day  the  gale  died  out,  and  by-and-fery  m. 
north-country  tug  picked  us  up.  We  took  sixteen^daya. 
in  ill  to  get  from  London  to  the  Tyne  I  When  we  gol: 
into  dock  we  had  lost  our  turn  for  loading,  and  ihty 
h:\iiled  us  off  to  a  tier  where  we  remained  for  a 


>[rs.  Beard  (the  captain  s  name  was  Beard)  came  frolic 
Colchester  to  see  the  old  man.  She  lived  on  board.  Th&' 
cTL^w  of  runners  had  left,  and  there  remained  only  tliss 
officers,  one  boy,  and  the  steward,  a  mulatto  whc&  am- 
swered  to  the  name  of  Abraham.  Mrs.  Beard  was  ask  oUI 
woman,  with  a  face  all  wrinkled  and  ruddy  like  a  wilrfer 
apple,  and  the  figure  of  a  young  girl.    She  caught  sigfit: 


YOUTH 

of  R.e  once,  sewing  on  a  button,  and  insisted  on  having 
my  shirts  to  repair.  This  was  something  diirerent  from 
the  captains'  wives  I  had  known  on  board  crack  cHppers. 
When  I  brought  her  the  shirts,  she  said :  '  And  the 
socks?  They  want  mending,  I  am  sure,  and  John's — 
Captain  Beard's — things  are  all  in  order  now.  I  would 
be  glad  of  something  to  do.'  Bless  the  old  woman.  She 
overhauled  my  outfit  for  me,  and  meantime  I  read  for  the 
first  time  '  Sartor  Resartus  '  and  Burnaby's  '  Ride  to 
Khiva.'  I  didn't  understand  much  of  the  first  then; 
but  I  remember  I  preferred  the  soldier  to  the  philosopher 
at  the  time ;  a  preference  which  life  has  only  confirmed. 
One  was  a  man,  and  the  other  was  either  more — or  less. 
However,  they  are  both  dead,  and  Mrs.  Beard  is  dead, 
and  youth,  strength,  genius,  thoughts,  achievements 
simple  hearts — all  die  ....  No  matter. 

"  They  loaded  us  at  last.  We  shipped  a  crew.  Eigh.? 
able  seamen  and  two  boys.  We  hauled  off  one  evening 
to  the  buoys  at  the  dock-gates,  ready  to  go  out,  and  with 
a  fair  prospect  of  beginning  the  voyage  next  day.  Mrs. 
Beard  was  to  start  for  home  by  a  late  train.  When  the 
ship  was  fast  we  went  to  tea.  We  sat  rather  silent 
through  the  meal — Mahon,  the  old  couple,  and  I.  I 
finished  first,  and  slipped  away  for  a  smoke,  my  cabin 
being  in  a  deck-house  just  against  the  poop.  It  was  high 
water,  blowing  fresh  with  a  drizzle;  the  double  dock- 
gates  were  opened,  and  the  steam  colliers  were  going  in 
and  out  in  the  darkness  with  their  lights  burning 
bright,  a  great  plashing  of  propellers,  rattling  of 
winches,  and  a  lot  of  hailing  on  the  pier-heads.  I  watched 

[8] 


YOUTH 

the  procession  of  head-lights  gliding  high  and  of  green 
lights  gliding  low  in  the  night,  when  suddenly  a  red 
gleam  flashed  at  me,  vanished,  came  into  view  again,  and 
remained.  The  fore-end  of  a  steamer  loomed  up  close. 
I  shouted  down  the  cabin,  '  Come  up,  quick ! '  and  then 
heard  a  startled  voice  saying  afar  in  the  dark,  '  Stop  her, 
sir.'  A  bell  jingled.  Another  voice  cried  warningly, 
*  We  are  going  right  into  that  bark,  sir.'  The  answer  to 
this  was  a  gruff  '  All  right,'  and  the  next  thing  was  a 
heavy  crash  as  the  steamer  struck  a  glancing  blow  with 
the  bluff  of  her  bow  about  our  fore-rigging.  There  was 
a  moment  of  confusion,  yeUing,  and  running  about. 
Steam  roared.  Then  somebody  was  heard  saying,  '  All 
clear,  sir.'  .  .  .  '  Are  you  all  right.?  '  asked  the  gruff 
voice.  I  had  jumped  forward  to  see  the  damage,  and 
hailed  back,  '  I  think  so.'  '  Easy  astern,'  said  the  gruff 
voice.  A  bell  jingled.  'What  steamer  is  that.?' 
screamed  IMahon.  By  that  time  she  was  no  more  to  us 
than  a  bulky  shadow  maneuvering  a  little  way  off.  They 
shouted  at  us  some  name — a  wom^an's  name,  Miranda  or 
Melissa — or  some  such  thing.  '  This  means  another 
month  in  this  beastly  hole,'  said  Mahon  to  me,  as  we 
peered  with  lamps  about  the  splintered  bulwarks  and 
broken  braces.     '  But  where's  the  captain.?  ' 

"  We  had  not  heard  or  seen  an3^thing  of  him  all  that 
time.  We  went  aft  to  look.  A  doleful  voice  arose  hail- 
ing somewhere  in  the  middle  of  the  dock,  '  Judea  ahoy ! ' 
.  .  .  How  the  devil  did  he  get  there  ?  .  .  .  '  Hallo ! ' 
we  shouted.  '  I  am  adrift  in  our  boat  without  oars,'  he 
cried.      A   belated   waterman   offered   his   services,   and 

[ »] 


YOUTH 

Mahon  struck  a  bargain  with  him  for  kalf-a-crown  to 
tow  our  skipper  alongside;  but  it  was  Mrs.  Beard  that 
came  up  the  ladder  first.  They  had  been  floating  about 
the  dock  in  that  niizzly  cold  rain  for  nearly  an  hour.  I 
was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life. 

"  It  appears  that  when  he  heard  my  shout  '  Come  up,* 
he  understood  at  once  what  was  the  matter,  caught  up 
his  v/ife,  ran  on  deck,  and  across,  and  down  into  oiur  boat, 
which  was  fast  to  the  ladder.  Not  bad  for  a  sixty-year- 
old.  Just  imagine  that  old  fellow  saving  heroically  in 
his  arms  that  old  woman — the  woman  of  his  life.  He 
set  her  down  on  a  thwart,  and  was  ready  to  climb  back 
on  board  when  the  painter  came  adrift  somehow,  and 
away  they  went  together.  Of  course  in  the  confusion 
we  did  not  hear  him  shouting.  He  looked  abashed.  She 
said  cheerfully,  '  I  suppose  it  does  not  matter  ray  losing 
the  train  now?  '  '  No,  Jenny — you  go  below  and  get 
warm,'  he  growled.  Then  to  us :  'A  sailor  has  no  busi- 
ness with  a  wife — I  say.  There  I  was,  out  of  the  ship. 
Well,  no  harm  done  this  time.  Let's  go  and  look  at  what 
that  fool  of  a  steamer  smashed.* 

"  It  wasn't  much,  but  it  delayed  us  three  weeks.  At 
the  end  of  that  time,  the  captain  being  engaged  with  his 
agents,  I  carried  Mrs.  Beard's  bag  to  the  railway-sta- 
tion and  put  her  all  comfy  into  a  third-class  carriage. 
She  lowered  the  window  to  say,  '  You  are  a  good  young 
man.  If  you  see  John — Captain  Beard — without  his 
muffler  at  night,  just  remind  him  from  me  to  keep  his 
throat  well  wrapped  up.'  '  Certainly,  Mrs.  Beard,'  I 
said.     '  You  are  a  good  young  man ;   I  noticed  how  at- 

[  10  ] 


YOUTH 

tentive  you  are  to  John — ^to  Captain '     The  tram 

pulled   out   suddenly;     I   took   my   cap   off   to  the  old 
woman :   I  never  saw  her  again.   .   .   .  Pass  the  bottle. 

"  We  went  to  sea  next  day.  When  we  made  that  start 
for  Bankok  we  had  been  already  tlu*ee  months  out  of 
London.  We  had  expected  to  be  a  fortnight  or  so — at 
the  outside. 

"  It  was  January,  and  the  weather  was  beautiful — the 
beautiful  sunny  winter  weather  that  has  more  charm 
than  in  the  summer-time,  because  it  is  unexpected,  and 
crisp,  and  you  know  it  won't,  it  can't,  last  long.  It's 
like  a  windfall,  like  a  godsend,  like  an  unexpected  piece 
of  luck. 

"  It  lasted  all  down  the  North  Sea,  all  down  Channel ; 
and  it  lasted  till  we  were  three  hundred  miles  or  so  to  the 
westward  of  the  Lizards:  then  the  wind  went  round  to 
the  sou' west  and  began  to  pipe  up.  In  two  days  it  blew 
a  gale.  The  Judea,  hove  to,  wallowed  on  the  Atlantic 
like  an  old  candlebox.  It  blew  day  after  day:  it  blew 
with  spite,  without  interval,  without  mercy,  without  rest. 
The  world  was  nothing  but  an  immensity  of  great  foam- 
ing waves  rushing  at  us,  under  a  sky  low  enough  fa 
touch  with  the  hand  and  dirty  like  a  smoked  ceiling.  In 
the  stx)rmy  space  surrounding  us  there  was  as  much  flying 
spray  as  air.  Day  after  day  and  night  after  night  there 
was  nothing  round  the  ship  but  the  howl  of  the  wind, 
the  tumult  of  the  sea,  the  noise  of  water  pouring  over 
her  deck.  There  was  no  rest  for  her  and  no  rest  for  us. 
She  tossed,  she  pitched,  she  stood  on  her  head,  she  sat  on 
her  tail,  she  rolled,  she  groaned,  and  we  had  to  hold  on 

[  11  ] 


YOUTH 

while  on  deck  and  cling  to  our  bunks  when  below,  in  a 
constant  effort  of  body  and  worry  of  mind. 

"  One  night  Mahon  spoke  through  the  small  window 
of  my  berth.  It  opened  right  into  my  very  bed,  and  I 
was  lying  there  sleepless,  in  my  boots,  feeling  as  though 
I  had  not  slept  for  years,  and  could  not  if  I  tried.  He 
said  excitedly — 

"  '  You  got  the  sounding-rod  in  here,  Marlow .''  I  can't 
get  the  pumps  to  suck.     By  God  !  it's  no  child's  play.' 

"  I  gave  him  the  sounding-rod  and  lay  down  again, 
trying  to  think  of  various  things — but  I  thought  only 
of  the  pumps.  When  I  came  on  deck  they  were  still  at 
it,  and  my  watch  relieved  at  the  pumps.  By  the  light  of 
the  lantern  brought  on  deck  to  examine  the  sounding- 
rod  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  their  weary,  serious  faces. 
We  pumped  all  the  four  hours.  We  pumped  all  night, 
all  day,  all  the  week, — watch  and  watch.  She  was  work- 
ing herself  loose,  and  leaked  badly — not  enough  to 
drown  us  at  once,  but  enough  to  kill  us  with  the  work  at 
the  pumps.  And  while  we  pumped  the  ship  was  going 
from  us  piecemecd:  the  bulwarks  vrent,  the  stanchions 
were  torn  out,  the  ventilators  smashed,  the  cabin-door 
burst  in.  There  was  not  a  dry  spot  in  the  ship.  She  was 
being  gutted  bit  by  bit.  The  long-boat  changed,  as  if 
by  magic,  into  matchwood  where  she  stood  in  her  gripes. 
I  had  lashed  her  myself,  and  was  rather  proud  of  my 
handiwork,  which  had  withstood  so  long  the  malice  of 
the  sea.  And  we  pumped.  And  there  was  no  break  in 
the  weather.  The  sea  was  white  like  a  sheet  of  foam, 
like  a  caldron  of  boiling  milk ;   there  was  not  a  break  in 

[  12  ] 


Y  O  U  T  H 

the  clouds,  no — not  the  size  of  a  man's  hand — no,  not 
for  so  much  as  ten  seconds.     There  was  for  us  no  sky, 
there  were  for  us  no  stars,  no  sun,  no  universe — nothing 
but  angry  clouds  and  an  infuriated  sea.     We  pumped 
watch  and  watch,  for  dear  Hf e ;   and  it  seemed  to  last  for 
months,  for  years,  for  all  eternity,  as  though  we  had  been 
dead  and  gone  to  a  hell  for  sailors.     We  forgot  the  day 
of  the  week,  the  name  of  the  m.onth,  what  year  it  was, 
and  whether  vfe  had  ever  been  ashore.     The  sails  blew 
av/ay,  she  laj  broadside  on  under  a  weather-cloth,  the 
ocean  pcured  over  her,  and  we  did  not  care.     We  turned 
those  handles,  and  had  the  eyes  of  idiots.    As  soon  as  we 
had  crawled  on  deck  I  used  to  take  a  round  turn  with  a 
rope  about  the  men,  the  pumps,  and  the  mainmast,  and 
we  turned,  we  turned  incessantly,  vvith  the  water  to  our 
waists,  to  our  necks,  over  our  heads.      It  was  all  one. 
We  had  forgotten  liow  it  felt  to  be  dry. 
^ "  And  there  was   somewhere  in  me  the  thought :    By 
Jove !  this  is  the  deuce  of  an  adventure — something  you 
read  about ;    and  it  is  my  first  voyage  as  second  mate — 
and  I  am  only  tvrenty — and  here  I  am  lasting  it  out  as 
well  as  any  of  these  men,  and  keeping  my  chaps  up  to 
the  mark.     I  was  pleased.     I  would  not  have  given  up 
the  experience  for  worlds.     I  had  moments  of  exultation. 
Whenever  the  old  dismantled  craft  pitched  heavily  with 
lier  counter  high  in  the  air,  she  seemed  to  me  to  throw 
up,  like  an  appeal,  like  a  defiance,  like  a  cry  to  the  clouds 
without  mercy,  the  words  written  on  her  stern :  *  Judea, 
London.     Do  or  Die.' 
"  O  youth !     The  strength  of  it,  the  faith  of  it,  the 

[   13   ] 


YOUTH 

imagination  of  it !  To  me  she  was  not  an  old  rattle-trap 
carting  about  the  world  a  lot  of  coal  for  a  freight — ^to 
me  she  was  the  endeavor,  the  test,  the  trial  of  life.  I 
think  of  her  with  pleasure,  with  affection,  with  regret — 
lis  you  would  think  of  someone  dead  you  have  loved.  I 
shall  never  forget  her.   .   .  .  Pass_JliiL-bfiiile. 

"  One  night  when  tied  to  the  mast,  as  I  explained,  we 
were  pumping  on,  deafened  with  the  wind,  and  without 
spirit  enough  in  us  to  wish  ourselves  dead,  a  heavy  sea 
crashed  aboard  and  swept  clean  over  us.  As  soon  as  I 
got  my  breath  I  shouted,  as  in  duty  bound,  '  Keep  on, 
boys ! '  when  suddenly  I  felt  something  hard  floating  on 
deck  strike  the  calf  of  my  leg.  I  made  a  grab  at  it  and 
missed.  It  was  so  dark  we  could  not  see  each  other's 
faces  within  a  foot — you  understand. 

"  After  that  thump  the  ship  kept  quiet  for  a  while^ 
and  the  thing,  whatever  it  was,  struck  my  leg  again. 
This  time  I  caught  it — and  it  was  a  sauce-pan.  At  first, 
being  stupid  with  fatigue  and  thinking  of  nothing  but 
the  pumps,  I  did  not  understand  what  I  had  in  ray  hand. 
Suddenly  it  dawned  upon  me,  and  I  shouted,  '  Boys,  the 
house  on  deck  is  gone.  Leave  this,  and  let's  look  for  the 
cook.' 

*'  There  was  a  deck-house  forward,  which  contained 
the  galley,  the  cook's  berth,  and  the  quarters  of  the 
crew.  As  we  had  expected  for  days  to  see  it  swept  away, 
the  hands  had  been  ordered  to  sleep  in  the  cabin — the 
only  safe  place  in  the  ship.  The  steward,  Abraham, 
however,  persisted  in  clinging  to  his  berth,  stupidly,  like 
a  mule — from  sheer  fright  I  believe,  like  an  animal  that 

[  14  ] 


YQUTIH 

won't  leave  a  stable  falling  in  an  earthquake.  So  we 
went  to  look  for  him.  It  was  chancing  death,  since  once 
out  of  our  lasliings  we  were  as  exposed  as  if  on  a  raft. 
But  we  went.  The  house  was  shattered  as  if  a  shell  had 
exploded  inside.  Most  of  it  had  gone  overboard — stove, 
men's  quarters,  and  their  property,  all  was  gone ;  but 
two  posts,  holding  a  portion  of  the  bulkhead  to  which 
Abrahaip's  bunk  was  attached,  remained  as  if  by  a  mir- 
acle. We  groped  in  the  ruins  and  came  upon  this,  and 
there  he  was,  sitting  in  his  bunk,  suiTounded  by  foam  and 
wreckage,  jabbering  cheerfully  to  himself.  He  was  out 
of  his  mind;  completely  and  for  ever  mad,  with  this 
sudden  shock  coming  upon  the  fag-end  of  his  endurance. 
We  snatched  him  up,  lugged  him  aft,  and  pitched  him 
head-first  down  the  cabin  companion.  You  understand 
there  was  no  time  to  carry  him  down  with  infinite  pre- 
cautions and  wait  to  see  how  he  got  on.  Those  below 
would  pick  him  up  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  all  right. 
We  were  in  a  hurry  to  go  back  to  the  pumps.  That  busi- 
ness could  not  wait.     A  bad  leak  is  an  inhuman  thing. 

*'  One  would  think  that  the  sole  purpose  of  that  fiend- 
ish gale  had  been  to  make  a  lunatic  of  that  poor  devil  of 
a  mulatto.  It  eased  before  morning,  and  next  day  the 
sky  cleared,  and  as  the  sea  went  down  the  leak  took  up. 
Wlien  it  came  to  bending  a  fresh  set  of  sails  the  crew 
demanded  to  put  back — and  really  there  was  nothing  else 
to  do.  Boats  gone,  decks  swept  clean,  cabin  gutted,  men 
without  a  stitch  but  what  they  stood  in,  stores  spoiled, 
sliip  strained.  We  put  her  head  for  home,  and — would 
jou  believe  it.?    The  wind  came  east  right  in  our  teeth. 

i  16  ] 


Y.01TTH 

It  blew  fresh,  it  blew  continuously.  We  had  to  beat  up 
every  inch  of  the  way,  but  she  did  not  leak  so  badly, 
the  water  keeping  comparatively  smooth.  Two  hours* 
pumping  in  every  four  is  no  joke — but  it  kept  her  afloat 
as  far  as  Falmouth. 

"  The  good  people  there  live  on  casualties  of  the  sea, 
and  no  doubt  were  glad  to  see  us.  A  hungry  crowd  of 
shipwrights  sharpened  their  chisels  at  the  sight  of  that 
carcass  of  a  ship.  And,  by  Jove !  they  had  pretty  pick- 
ings off  us  before  they  were  done.  I  fancy  the  owner 
was  already  in  a  tight  place.  There  were  delays.  Then 
it  was  decided  to  take  part  of  the  cargo  out  and  calk  her 
topsides.  This  v/as  done,  the  repairs  finished,  cargo  re- 
shipped  ;  a  new  crew  came  on  board,  and  we  vrent  out— » 
for  Bankok.  At  the  end  of  a  week  v.  e  were  back  again. 
The  crew  said  they  weren't  going  to  Bankok — a  hundred 
and  fifty  days'  passage — in  a  something  hooker  that 
wanted  pumping  eight  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four; 
and  the  nautical  papers  inserted  again  the  little  para- 
grapli :  '  Judea.  Bark.  Tyne  to  Bankok ;  coals  ;  put 
back  lo  Falmouth  leaky  and  with  crew  refusing  duty.* 

"  There  were  more  delays — more  tinkering.  The 
owner  came  down  for  a  daj^,  and  said  she  was  as  right  as 
a  little  fiddle.  Poor  old  Captain  Beard  looked  like  the 
ghost  of  a  Geordie  skipper — through  the  worry  and 
humJliation  of  it.  Remember  he  was  sixt^',  and  it  was  his 
first  command.  Mahon  said  it  was  a  foolish  business, 
and  would  end  badly.  I  loved  the  ship  m.ore  than  ever, 
and  wanted  awfully  to  get  to  Bf^kok.  To  Bankok! 
Magic  name,  blessed  name.    Mesopotamia  wasn't  a  patch 

[  16  ] 


on  it.  Remember  I  was  twenty,  and  it  was  my  first  second 
mate's  billet,  and  the  East  was  waiting  for  me. 

"  We  went  out  and  anchored  in  the  outer  roads  with  a 
fresh  crew — the  third.  She  leaked  worse  than  ever. 
It  was  as  if  those  confounded  shipwrights  had  actually 
made  a  hole  in  her.  This  time  we  did  not  even 
go  outside.  The  crew  simply  refused  to  man  the 
windlass. 

"  They  towed  us  back  to  the  inner  harbor,  and  we  be- 
came a  fixture,  a  feature,  an  institution  of  the  place. 
People  pointed  us  out  to  visitors  as  '  That  'ere  bark 
that's  going  to  Bankok — has  been  here  six  montlis — put 
back  three  times.'  On  holidays  the  small  boys  pulhng 
about  in  boats  would  hail,  *  Judea,  ahoy ! '  and  if  a  head 
showed  above  the  rail  shouted,  '  Where  you  bound  to  ?■  — 
Bankok.^  '  and  jeered.  We  were  only  three  on  board. 
The  poor  old  skipper  mooned  in  the  cabin.  Mahon  un- 
dertook the  cooking,  and  unexpectedly  developed  all  a 
Frenchman's  genius  for  preparing  nice  little  messes.  I 
looked  languidly  after  the  rigging.  We  became  citizens 
of  Falmouth.  Every  shopkeeper  knew  us.  At  the  bar- 
ber's or  tobacconist's  they  asked  familiarly,  '  Do  you 
think  you  will  ever  get  to  Bankok  ?  '  Meantime  the 
owner,  the  underwriters,  and  the  charterers  squabbled 
amongst  themselves  in  London,  and  our  pay  went  on. 
.  .   .  Pass  the  bottle. 

"  It  was  horrid.  Morally  it  was  worse  than  pumping 
for  life.  It  seemed  as  though  we  had  been  forgotten  by 
the  world,  belonged  to  nobody,  would  get  nowhere;  it 
seemed  that,  as  if  bewitched,  we  would  have  to  live  for 

[  17  ] 


YOUTH 

ever  and  ever  in  that  inner  harbor,  a  derision  and  a  by- 
word to  generations  of  long-shore  loafers  and  dishonest 
boatmen.  I  obtained  three  months'  pay  and  a  five  days' 
leave,  and  made  a  rush  for  London.  It  took  me  a  da^^ 
to  get  there  and  pretty  well  another  to  come  back — but 
three  months'  pay  went  all  the  same.  I  don't  know  what 
I  did  with  it.  I  went  to  a  music-hall,  I  believe,  lunched, 
dined,  and  supped  in  a  swell  place  in  Regent  Street,  and 
was  back  to  time,  with  nothing  but  a  complete  set  of 
Byron's  works  and  a  nev/  railway  rug  to  show  for  three 
months'  v/ork.  The  boatman  who  pulled  me  off  to  the 
ship  said :  *  Hallo !  I  thought  you  had  left  the  old  thing. 
She  will  never  get  to  Bankok.'  '  That's  all  you  know 
about  it,'  I  said  scornfully — but  I  didn't  like  that  proph- 
ecy at  all. 

"  Suddenly  a  man,  some  kind  of  agent  to  somebody, 
appeared  with  full  powers.  He  had  grog  blossoms  all 
over  his  face,  an  indomitable  energy,  and  was  a  jolly 
soul.  We  leaped  into  life  again.  A  hulk  ca,me  along- 
side, took  our  cargo,  and  then  we  went  into  dry  dock  to 
get  our  copper  stripped.  No  wonder  she  leaked.  The 
poor  thing,  strained  beyond  endurance  by  the  gale,  had, 
as  if  in  disgust,  spat  out  all  the  oakum  of  her  lower 
seams.  She  was  recalked,  new  coppered,  and  made  as 
tight  as  a  bottle.  We  went  back  to  the  hulk  and  re- 
shipped  our  cargo. 

"  Then  on  a  fine  moonlight  night,  all  the  rats  left  the 
ship. 

"  We  had  been  infested  with  them.  They  had  destroyed 
our  sails,  consumed  more  stores  than  the  crew,  affably 

[  18  ] 


YOUTH 

shared  our  beds  and  our  dangers,  and  now,  when  the 
ship  was  made  seaworthy,  concluded  to  clear  out.  I 
called  Mahon  to  enjoy  the  spectacle.  Rat  after  rat  ap- 
peared on  our  rail,  took  a  last  look  over  his  shoulder, 
and  leaped  with  a  hollow  thud  into  the  empty  hulk. 
We  tried  to  count  them,  but  soon  lost  the  tale.  MahoE 
said :  '  Well,  well !  don't  talk  to  me  about  the  intelligence 
of  rats.  They  ought  to  have  left  before,  when  we  had 
that  narrow  squeak  from  foundering.  There  you  have 
t]:e  proof  how  silly  is  the  superstition  about  them.  Thej 
letive  a  good  ship  for  an  old  rotten  hulk,  where  there  i« 
nothing  to  eat,  too,  the  fools !  .  .  .  I  don't  believe  they 
know  what  is  safe  or  what  is  good  for  them,  any  more 
than  you  or  I.' 

"  And  after  some  more  talk  we  agreed  that  the  wisdom 
of  rats  had  been  grossly  overrated,  being  in  fact  nt 
greater  than  that  of  men. 

''  The  story  of  the  ship  was  known,  by  this,  all  up  the 
Channel  from  Land's  End  to  the  Forelands,  and  wc 
could  get  no  crew  on  the  south  coast.  They  sent  us  one 
all  complete  from  Liverpool,  and  we  left  once  more — for 
Bank  ok. 

"  We  had  fair  breezes,  smooth  water  right  into  the 
tropics,  and  the  old  Judea  lumbered  along  in  the  sun- 
shine. When  she  went  eight  knots  everything  cracked 
aloft,  and  we  tied  our  caps  to  our  heads ;  but  mostly  she 
strolled  on  at  the  rate  of  three  miles  an  hour.  What 
could  you  expect.'^  She  was  tired— that  old  ship.  Her 
youth  was  where  mine  is — where  yours  is — you  fellows 
who  listen  to  this  j^arn;    and  what  friend  would  throw 

[  19  ] 


y. 


YOUTH 

jour  years  and  your  vreariness  in  your  face?  We  didn't 
grumble  at  her.  To  us  af  l,  at  least,  it  seemed  as  though 
v>e  had  been  born  in  her,  reared  in  her,  had  lived  in  her 
for  ages,  had  never  known  any  other  ship.  I  would 
just  as  soon  have  abused  the  old  village  church  at  home 
for  not  being  a  cathedral. 

"  And  for  me  there  was  also  my  youth  to  make  me  pa- 
tient. There  vras  all  the  East  before  me,  and  all  life,  and 
the  thought  that  I  had  been  tried  in  that  ship  and  had 
come  out  pretty  well.  And  I  thought  of  men  of  old  who, 
centuries  ago,  went  that  road  in  ships  that  sailed  no 
better,  to  the  land  of  palms,  and  spices,  and  yellow  sands, 
and  of  brown  nations  ruled  by  kings  more  cruel  than 
Nero  the  Roman  and  more  splendid  than  Solomon  the 
Jevr.  The  old  bark  lumbered  on,  heavy  with  her  age 
and  the  burden  of  her  cargo,  while  I  lived  the  life  of 
youth  in  ignorance  and  hope.  She  lumbered  on  through 
an  interminable  procession  of  days ;  and  the  fresh  gild- 
ing flashed  back  at  the  setting  sun,  seemed  to  cry  out 
over  the  darkening  sea  the  words  painted  on  her  stern, 
*  Jiidea,  London.     Do  or  Die.' 

"  Then  v/e  entered  the  Indian  Ocean  and  steered  north- 
erly for  Java  Head.  The  winds  were  light.  Weeks 
slipped  by.  She  crawled  on,  do  or  die,  and  people  at 
home  began  to  think  of  posting  us  as  overdue. 

"  One  Saturday  evening,  I  being  off  dutj^,  the  men 
asked  me  to  give  them  an  extra  bucket  of  water  or  so — 
for  washing  clothes.  As  I  did  not  wish  to  screw  on  the 
fresh-water  pump  so  late,  I  went  forward  whistling,  and 
with  a  key  in  my  hand  to  unlock  the  forepeak  scuttle, 

[  20  ] 


Y  O  Ij  T  H 

intending  to  serve  the  water  out  of  a  spare  tank  we  kept 
there. 

"  The  smell  down  below  was  as  unexpected  as  it  was 
frightful.  One  would  have  thought  hundreds  of  par- 
nffin-lamps  had  been  ilaring  and  smoking  in  that  hole 
for  days.  I  was  glad  to  get  out.  The  man  with  me 
coughed  and  said,  '  Funny  smell,  sir.'  I  answered  negli- 
gently, '  It's  good  for  the  health,  they  say,'  and  walked 
aft. 

"  The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  put  my  head  down  the 
square  of  the  midship  ventilator.  As  I  lifted  the  lid  a 
visible  breatli,  something  like  a  thin  fog,  a  puff  of  faint 
haze,  rose  from  the  opening.  The  ascending  air  was  hot, 
and  had  a  heavy,  soot}',  paraffiny  smell.  I  gave  one  sniiF, 
and  put  down  the  lid  gently.  It  was  no  use  choking  my- 
self.    The  cargo  was  on  nre. 

"  Next  day  she  began  to  smoke  in  earnest.  You  see  it 
was  to  be  expected,  for  though  the  coal  was  of  a  safe 
kind,  that  cargo  had  been  so  handled,  so  broken  up  with 
handling,  that  it  looked  more  like  smithy  coal  than  any- 
thing else.  Then  it  had  been  wetted — more  than  once. 
It  rained  all  the  time  we  were  taking  it  back  from  the 
hulk,  and  now  with  this  long  passage  it  got  heated,  and 
there  was  another  case  of  spontaneous  combustion. 

"  The  captain  called  us  into  the  cabin.  He  had  a  chart 
spread  on  the  table,  and  looked  unhappy.  He  said,  '  The 
coast  of  West  Australia  is  near,  but  I  mean  to  proceed 
to  our  destination.  It  is  the  hurricane  month  too;  but 
we  will  just  keep  her  head  for  Bankok,  and  fight  the  fire. 
No  more  putting  back  anywhere,  if  we  all  get  roasted. 

[  21   1 


YOUTH 

We  will  try  first  to  stifle  this  'ore  damned  combustion  by 
want  of  air.' 

"  We  tried.  We  battened  down  everything,  and  still 
she  smoked.  Tlie  smoke  kept  coming  out  through  im- 
perceptible crevices ;  it  forced  itself  through  bulkheads 
and  covers ;  it  oozed  here  and  there  and  everywhere  in 
slender  threads,  in  an  invisible  film,  in  an  incomprehen- 
sible manner.  It  iiuide  its  way  into  the  cabin,  into  the 
forecastle;  it  poisoned  the  sheltered  places  on  the  deck, 
it  could  be  sniffed  as  high  as  the  mainyard.  It  was 
clear  that  if  the  smoke  came  out  the  air  came  in.  This 
was  disheartening.    This  combustion  refused  to  be  stifled. 

"  We  resolved  to  try  water,  and  took  the  hatches  oiT. 
Enormous  volumes  of  smoke,  whitish,  yellowish,  thick, 
greasy,  misty,  choking,  ascended  as  high  as  the  trucks. 
All  hands  cleared  out  aft.  Then  the  poisonous  cloud'' 
blew  away,  and  we  went  back  to  work  in  a  smoke  that 
-><ras  no  thicker  now  than  that  of  an  ordinary  factory 
chimney. 

•'  We  rigged  the  force  pump,  got  the  hose  along,  and 
})3^-and-by  it  burst.  Well,  it  was  as  old  as  the  ship — a 
prehistoric  hose,  and  paf  t  repair.  Then  we  pumped  with 
the  feeble  head-pump,  drew  water  with  buckets,  and  in 
this  way  managed  in  time  to  pour  lots  of  Indian  Ocean 
into  the  main  hatch.  The  bright  stream  flashed  in  sun- 
shine, fell  into  a  layer  of  white  crawling  smoke,  and  van- 
ished on  the  black  surface  of  coal.  Steam  ascended 
mingling  with  the  smoke.  We  poured  salt  water  as  into 
a  barrel  without  a  bottom.  It  was  our  fate  to  pump  iii 
that  ship,  to  pump  out  of  her,  to  pump  into  her;    and 

[  22  ] 


YOUTH 

after  keeping  water  out  of  her  to  save  ourselves  fro*i 
being  drowned,  we  frantically  poured  water  into  her  to 
save  ourselves  from  being  burnt. 

"  And  she  crawled  on,  do  or  die,  in  the  serene  weather. 
The  sky  was  a  miracle  of  purity,  a  miracle  of  azure. 
The  sea  was  polished,  was  blue,  was  pellucid,  was  spark- 
ling like  a  precious  stone,  extending  on  all  sides,  all 
round  to  the  horizon — as  if  the  whole  terrestrial  globe 
had  been  one  jewel,  one  colossal  sapphire,  a  single  gem 
fashioned  into  a  planet.  And  on  the  luster  of  the  great 
calm  waters  the  Judea  glided  imperceptibly,  enveloped 
in  languid  and  unclean  vapors,  in  a  lazy  cloud  thaL--'^ 
drifted  to  leeward,  light  and  slow:  a  f^estiTerojjFcloud 
defiling  the  splendor  of  sea  and  sky. 

"  All  this  time  of  course  we  saw  no  fire.  The  cargo 
smoldered  at  the  bottom  somewhere.  Once  Mahon,  as 
we  were  working  side  by  side,  said  to  me  with  a  queer 
smile :  '  Now,  if  she  only  would  spring  a  tidy  leak — 
like  that  time  when  we  first  left  the  Cliannel — it  would 
put  a  stopper  on  this  fire.  Wouldn't  it.?  '  I  remarked 
irrelevantly,  *  Do  you  remember  the  rats  ?  ' 

"  We  fought  the  fire  and  sailed  t^e  sliip  too  as  carefully 
as  though  nothing  had  been  the  matter.  The  steward 
cooked  and  attended  on  us.  Of  the  other  twelve  men, 
eight  worked  while  four  rested.  Everyone  took  his 
turn,  captain  included.  There  was  equality,  and  if  not 
exactly  fraternity,  then  a  deal  of  good  feeling.  Some- 
times a  man,  as  he  dashed  a  bucketful  of  water  down  the 
hatchway,  would  yell  out, '  Hurrah  for  Bankok ! '  and  the 
rest  laughed.     But  generally  we  were  taciturn  and  seri- 

r  r6  J 


YOUTH 

ous — and  thirsty.  Oh  !  how  thirsty !  And  we  had  to  be 
careful  y/ith  the  v/ater.  Strict  allowance.  The  ship 
smoked,  the  sun  blazed.   .   .   .  Pgiss  the  bottle. 

"  We  tried  everything.  We  even  made  an  attempt  to 
dig  dov.n  to  the  fire.  No  good,  of  course.  No  man 
could  remain  more  than  a  minute  below.  Mahon,  who 
went  first,  fainted  there,  and  the  man  who  went  to  fetch 
him  cut  did  likewise.  We  lugged  them  out  on  deck. 
Then  I  leaped  down  to  show  how  easily  it  could  be  done. 
They  had  learned  wisdom  by  that  tim.e,  and  contented 
themselves  by  fishing  for  me  with  a  chain-hook  tied  to  a 
broom-handle,  I  believe.  I  did  not  offer  to  go  and  fetch 
up  my  shovel,  which  was  left  down  below. 

"  Things  began  to  look  bad.  We  put  the  long-boat 
into  the  water.  The  second  boat  was  ready  to  swing  out, 
We  had  also  another,  a  fourteen-foot  thing,  on  davits 
aft,  where  it  was  quite  safe. 

"  Then  behold,  the  smoke  suddenly  decreased.  We  re- 
doubled our  efforts  to  flood  the  bottom  of  the  ship.  In 
two  days  there  was  no  smoke  at  all.  Everybody  was  on 
the  broad  grin.  This  was  on  a  Friday.  On  Saturda^^  no 
work,  but  sailing  the  ship  cf  course  was  done.  The  men 
washed  their  clothes  and  their  faces  for  the  first  time  in 
a  fortnight,  and  had  a  special  dinner  given  them.  The}^ 
spoke  cf  spontaneous  combustion  with  contempt,  and 
implied  they  were  the  boys  to  put  out  combustions.  Som.e- 
how  we  all  felt  as  though  we  each  had  inherited  a  large 
fortune.  But  a  beastly  smell  of  burning  hung  about  the 
ship.  Captain  Beard  had  hollow  eyes  and  sunken  cheeks. 
I  had  never  noticed  so  much  before  how  twisted  and 

[  24  ] 


y  O  U  T  H 

bo^^d  he  was.  He  and  Mahon  prowled  soberly  about 
hatches  and  ventilators,  sniffing.  It  struck  me  suddenly 
peer  Mahon  was  a  very,  very  old  chap.  As  to  me,  I  was 
as  pleased  and  proud  as  though  I  had  helped  to  win  a 
great  naval  battle.     O  !   Youth  ! 

"  The  night  was  fine.  In  the  morning  a  homeward- 
bound  ship  passed  us  hull  down, — the  first  we  had  seen 
for  m.onths ;  but  we  were  nearing  the  land  at  last,  Java 
Head  being  about  190  miles  off,  and  nearly  due 
north. 

"  Next  dp.j  it  was  my  watch  on  deck  from  eight  to 
twelve.  At  breakfast  the  captain  observed, '  It's  wonder- 
ful how  that  smell  hangs  about  the  cabin.'  About  ten, 
the  mate  being  on  the  poop,  I  stepped  down  on  the  main- 
deck  for  a  moment.  The  carpenter's  bench  stood  abaft 
the  mainmast:  I  leaned  against  it  sucking  at  m}'  pipe, 
and  the  carpenter,  a  young  chap,  came  to  talk  to  me.  He 
remarked,  '  I  think  we  have  done  very  well,  haven't  we  ?  ' 
and  then  I  perceived  with  annoyance  the  fcol  was  try- 
ing to  tilt  the  bench.  I  said  curtly,  '  Don't,  Chips,'  and 
immediately  became  aware  of  a  queer  sensation,  of  an 
absurd  delusion, — I  seemed  somehow  to  be  in  th.e  air.  I 
heard  all  round  m^e  like  a  pent-up  breath  released — as 
if  a  thousand  giants  simultaneously  had  said  Phoo ! — 
and  felt  a  dull  concussion  which  made  my  ribs  ache  sud- 
denly. No  doubt  about  it — I  was  in  the  air,  and  my 
body  was  describing  a  short  parabola.  But  short  as  it 
Ty^as,  I  had  the  time  to  think  several  thoughts  in,  as  far 
as  I  can  remember,  the  followino;  order:  '  This  can't  be 
the  carpenter — What  is  it? — Some  accident — Submarine 

[  25  ] 


YOUTH 

volcano? — Coals,  gas! — B}'  Jove!  we  are  being  blown 
up — Everybody's  dead — I  am  falling  into  the  after- 
hatch — I  see  fire  in  it.' 

''  The  coal-dust  suspended  in  the  air  of  the  hold  had 
glowed  dull-red  at  the  moment  of  the  explosion.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  in  an  infinitesimal  fraction  of  a 
second  since  the  first  tilt  of  the  bench,  I  was  sprawling 
full  length  on  the  cargo.  I  picked  myself  up  and  scrai»- 
bled  out.  It  was  quick  like  a  rebound.  The  deck  was  a 
wilderness  of  smashed  timber,  l3^ing  crosswise  like  trees  in 
a  wood  after  a  hurricane;  an  immense  curtain  of  soiled 
rags  waved  gently  before  me — it  was  the  mainsail  blow* 
to  strips.  I  thought.  The  masts  will  be  toppling  over 
directly ;  and  to  get  out  of  the  way  bolted  on  all-fours 
towards  the  poop-ladder.  The  first  person  I  saw  was 
^lahon,  with  eyes  like  saucers,  liis  mouth  open,  and  the 
long  white  hair  standing  straight  on  end  round  his  heati 
like  a  silver  halo.  He  was  just  about  to  go  down  when 
the  sight  of  the  main-deck  stirring,  heaving  up,  and 
changing  into  splinters  before  his  eyes,  petrified  him  on 
the  top  step.  I  stared  at  him  in  unbelief,  and  he  stare<l 
at  me  with  a  queer  kind  of  shocked  curiosit}^  I  did  not 
know  that  I  had  no  hair,  no  eyebrows,  no  eyelashes,  that 
my  young  mustache  was  burnt  off,  that  my  face  was 
black,  one  cheek  laid  open,  my  nose  cut,  and  m}'  chi* 
bleeding.  I  had  lost  my  cap,  one  of  my  slippers,  and 
my  shirt  was  torn  to  rags.  Of  all  this  I  was  not  aware. 
I  was  amazed  to  see  the  ship  still  afloat,  the  poop-deck 
whole — and,  most  of  all,  to  see  anybody''  alive.  Also 
the  peace  of  the  sky  and  the  serenity  of  the  sea  were 

r  26 1 


Y  O  U  T  H 

distinctly  surprising.     I  suppose  I  expected  to  see  them 
convulsed  with  horror.    .     .     .    Pass  the  bottle. 

•  There  was  a  voice  liailing  the  ship  from  somewhere 
'■ — in  the  air,  in  the  sky — I  couldn't  tell.  Presently  I 
saw  the  captain — -and  he  was  mad.    He  asked  me  eagerly, 

Where's  the  cabin-table.^  '  and  to  hear  such  a  question 
was  a  frightful  shock.  I  had  just  been  blown  up,  you 
understand,  and  vibrated  with  that  experience, — I  wasn't 
quite  sure  whether  I  was  alive.  Mahon  began  to  stamp 
with  both  feet  and  yelled  at  him,  '  Good  God !  don't  you 
see  the  deck's  bloun  out  of  her.^  '  I  found  my  voice,  and 
stammered  out  as  if  conscious  of  some  gross  neglect  of 
duty,  '  I  don't  know  where  the  cabin-table  is.'  It  was 
like  an  absurd  dream. 

•  Do  you  know  what  he  wanted  next.?  Well,  he 
wanted  to  trim  the  yard.s.  Very  placidly,  and  as  if  lost 
in  thought,  he  insisted  on  having  the  foreyard  squared. 

I  don't  know  if  there's  anybody  alive,'  said  Mahon, 
almost  tearfully.  '  Surely,'  he  said,  gently,  '  there  will 
be  enough  left  to  square  the  foreyard.' 

•  The  old  chap,  it  seems,  was  in  his  own  berth,  wind- 
ing up  the  chronom.eters,  vrhen  the  shock  sent  him  spin- 
ning. Immediately  it  occurred  to  him — as  he  said  after- 
wards— that  the  ship  had  struck  something,  and  he  ran 
out  into  the  cabin.  There,  he  saw,  the  cabin-table  had 
vanished  somewhere.  The  deck  being  blown  up,  it  had 
fallen  down  into  the  lazarette  of  course.  Where  we  had 
our  breakfast  that  morning  he  saw  only  a  great  hole  in 
the  floor.  This  appeared  to  him  so  awfully  mysterious, 
and  impressed  him  so  immensely,  that  what  he  saw  and 

[  2^  ] 


YOUTH 

heard  after  he  got  on  deck  were  mere  trifles  in  com- 
parison. And,  mark,  he  noticed  directly  the  wheel  de- 
serted and  his  bark  off  her  course — and  his  only 
thought  was  to  get  that  miserable,  stripped,  undecked, 
smoldering  shell  of  a  ship  back  again  with  her  head 
pointing  at  her  port  of  destination.  Bankok !  That's 
what  he  w^as  after.  I  tell  you  this  quiet,  bowed,  bandy- 
legged, almost  deformed  little  man  was  imm.ense  in  the 
singleness  of  his  idea  and  in  his  placid  ignorance  of 
our  agitation.  He  motioned  us  forward  with  a  com-' 
manding  gesture,  and  went  to  take  the  wheel  him- 
self. 

"  Yes ;  that  w^as  the  first  thing  we  did — trim  the  yards 
of  that  wreck !  No  one  was  killed,  or  even  disabled,  but 
everyone  was  more  or  less  hurt.  You  should  have  seen 
them !  Some  were  in  rags,  with  black  faces,  like  coal- 
heavers,  like  sweeps,  and  had  bullet  heads  that  seemed 
closely  cropped,  but  were  in  fact  singed  to  the  skin. 
Others,  of  the  watch  below,  awakened  by  being  shot  out 
from  their  collapsing  bunks,  shivered  incessantly,  and 
kept  en  groaning  even  as  we  went  about  our  work.  But 
they  ail  worked.  That  crew^  of  Liverpool  hard  cases  liad 
in  them  the  right  stuff.  It's  my  experience  they  always 
have.  It  is  the  sea  that  gives  it — the  vastness,  the  lone- 
liness surrounding  their  dark  stolid  souls.  Ah!  Well! 
we  stumbled,  we  crept,  we  fell,  vv'e  barked  our  shins  on 
the  v;reckage,  we  hauled.  The  masts  stood,  but  v/e  did 
not  know  how  much  they  might  be  charred  down  below. 
It  was  nearly  calm,  but  a  long  swell  ran  from  the  west 
and  made  her  roll.     They  might  go  at  any  moment.   We 

[  28  ] 


YOUTH 

locked  at  them  with  apprehension.  One  could  not  fore- 
see which  way  they  would  fall. 

"  Then  we  retreated  aft  and  looked  about  us.  The 
deck  y/as  a  tangle  of  planks  on  edge,  of  planks  on  end, 
of  splinters,  of  ruined  woodwork.  The  masts  rose  from 
that  chaos  like  big  trees  above  a  matted  undergrowth. 
The  interstices  of  that  mass  of  wreckage  were  full  o£ 
something  whitish,  sluggish,  stirring — of  something  that 
was  like  a  greasy  fog.  The  smoke  of  the  invisible  fire 
was  coming  up  again,  was  trailing,  like  a  poisonous  tliick 
mist  in  seme  valley  choked  with  dead  wood.  Already 
lazy  wisps  were  beginning  to  curl  upwards  amongst  the 
mass  of  splinters.  Here  and  there  a  piece  of  timber, 
stuck  upright,  resembled  a  post.  Half  of  a  fife-rail  had 
been  shot  through  the  foresail,  and  the  sky  made  a 
patch  of  glorious  blue  in  the  ignobly  soiled  canvas.  A 
portion  of  several  boards  holding  together  had  fallen 
across  the  rail,  and  one  end  protruded  overboard,  like  a 
gangway  leading  upon  nothing,  like  a  gangway  leading 
over  the  deep  sea,  leading  to  death — as  if  inviting  us  to 
walk  the  plank  at  once  and  be  done  with  our  ridiculous 
troubles.  And  still  the  air,  the  sky — a  ghost,  something 
invisible  was  hailing  the  ship. 

"  Someone  had  the  sense  to  look  over,  and  there  was 
the  helmsman,  who  had  impulsively  jumped  overboard, 
anxious  to  come  back.  He  yelled  and  swam  lustily  like 
a  merman,  keeping  up  with  the  ship.  We  threw  him  a 
rope,  and  presently  he  stood  amongst  us  streaming  with 
water  and  very  crest-fallen.  The  captain  had  surren- 
dered the  wheel,  and  apart,  elbow  on  rail  and  chin  in 

[29  1 


YOUTH 

hand,  gazed  at  the  sea  wistfully.  We  asked  ourselves, 
What  next?  I  thought.  Now,  this  is  something  like. 
This  is  great.     I  wonder  what  will  happen.     O  youth! 

"  Suddenly  Mahon  sighted  a  steamer  far  astern.  Cap- 
tain Beard  said,  '  We  may  do  something  with  her  yet.' 
We  hoisted  two  flags,  which  said  in  the  international 
language  of  the  sea,  '  On  fire.  Want  immediate  assis- 
tance.' The  steamer  grew  bigger  rapidly,  and  by-and- 
by  spoke  with  two  flags  on  her  foremast,  '  I  am  coming 
to  your  assistance.' 

"  In  half  an  hour  she  was  abreast,  to  windward,  within 
hail,  and  rolling  slightly,  with  her  engines  stopped.  V\\ 
lost  our  composure,  and  yelled  all  together  with  excitc- 
menr,  '  We've  been  blown  up.'  A  man  in  a  Avhite  helmet, 
on  the  bridge,  cried,  '  Yes !  All  right !  all  right ! '  and  J 
he  nodded  his  head,  and  smiled,  and  made  soothing  mo-  '^ 
tions  \^  ith  his  hand  as  though  at  a  lot  of  frightened  ciiil- 
dren.  One  of  the  boats  dropped  in  the  water,  and 
walked  towards  us  upon  the  sea  with  her  long  oars.  Four 
Calashes  pulled  a  sv/inging  stroke.  This  was  my  lirst 
sight  of  Malay  seamen.  I've  known  them  since,  iiut  ] 
what  struck  me  then  was  their  unconcern :  the}^  came 
alongside,  and  even  the  bowman  standing  up  and  holding 
to  our  main-chains  with  the  bo^it-jiook  did  not  deign  to 
lift  his  liead  for  a  glance.  I  thought  people  who  Iiad 
been  blown  up  deserved  more  attention. 

"  A  little  man,  dry  like  a  chip  and  agile  like  a  monkt  r, 
clambered  up.  It  was  the  mate  of  the  steamer.  He 
gave  one  look,  and  cried,  '  O  boys — you  had  better  quit.' 

"  We  were  silent-     He  talked  apart  with  the  captain 
[30  ] 


Y  O  U  T  H 

for  a  time, — seemed  to  argue  with  him.     Then  they  went 
away  together  to  the  steamer. 

'^  When  our  skipper  came  back  w^e  learned  that  the 
steamer  was  the  Sommerville,  Captain  Nash,  from  West 
Austraha  to  Singapore  via  Batavia  with  mails,  and  that 
the  agreement  was  she  should  tow  us  to  Anjer  or  Ba- 
tavia, if  possible,  where  we  could  extinguish  the  fire  by 
scuttling,  and  then  proceed  on  our  voyage — to  Bankok ! 
The  old  man  seemed  excited.  '  We  will  do  it  yet,'  he 
said  to  Mahon,  fiercely.  He  shook  his  fist  at  the  sky. 
Nobody  else  said  a  word. 

'•  At  noon  the  steamer  began  to  tow.  She  went  ahead 
slim  and  high,  and  what  was  left  of  the  Judea  followed 
at  the  end  of  seventy  fathom  of  tow-rope, — followed 
her  swiftly  like  a  cloud  of  smoke  with  mastheads  pro- 
truding above.  We  went  aloft  to  furl  the  sails.  We 
coughed  on  the  yards,  and  were  careful  about  the  bunts. 
Do  you  see  the  lot  of  u«  there,  putting  a  neat  furl  on  the 
sails  of  that  ship  doomed  to  arrive  nowhere?  There 
was  not  a  man  who  didn't  think  that  at  any  moment  the 
masts  would  topple  over.  From  aloft  we  could  not  see 
the  ship  for  smoke,  and  they  worked  carefully,  passing 
the  gaskets  with  evcM  turns.  '  Harbor  furl — aloft 
there ! '  cried  Mahon  from  below. 

"You  understand  this?  I  don't  think  one  of  those 
chaps  expected  to  get  down  in  the  usual  way.  When 
we  did  I  heard  them  saying  to  each  other,  '  Well,  I 
tliought  we  would  come  down  overboard,  in  a  lump — 
sticks  and  all— blame  me  if  I  didn't.'  '  That's  what  I 
was  thinking  to  myself,'  would  answer  w^earily  another 

r  31  ] 


YOUTH 

battered  and  bandaged  scarecrow.  And,  mind,  these  were 
men  without  the  drilled-in  habit  of  obedience.  To  an 
onlooker  they  would  be  a  lot  of  profane  scalh^wags 
without  a  redeeming  point.  What  made  them  do  it — 
what  made  them  obey  me  vrhen  I,  thinking  consciously 
how  fine  it  was,  made  them  drop  the  bunt  of  the  foresail 
t^ce  to  try  and  do  it  better  ?  What  ?  They  had  no  pro- 
fessional reputation — no  exam.plcs,  no  praise.  It  wasn't 
a  sense  of  duty ;  they  all  knew  Vv^ell  enough  how  to  shirk, 
and  laze,  and  dodge — v.-hen  they  had  a  mind  to  it — and 
mostly  they  had.  Was  it  the  two  pounds  ten  a  month 
that  sent  them  there.?  They  didn't  think  their  pay  half 
good  enough.  No;  it  was  something  in  them,  something 
inborn  and  subtle  and  everlasting.  I  don't  say  posi- 
tively that  the  crew  of  a  French  or  German  merchant- 
man wouldn't  have  done  it,  but  I  doubt  whether  it  would 
have  been  done  in  the  same  wslj.  There  was  a  complete- 
ness in  it,  something  solid  like  a  principle,  and  masterful 
like  an  instinct — a  disclosure  of  something  secret — of 
that  hidden  something,  that  gift,  of  good  or  evil  that 
makes  racial  difference,  that  shapes  the  fate  of  nations. 
"  It  was  that  night  at  ten  that,  for  the  first  time  since 
we  had  been  fighting  it,  we  saw  the  fire.  The  speed  cf 
the  towing  had  fanned  the  smoldering  destruction.  A 
blue  gleam  appeared  forward,  shining  below  the  vrreck 
of  the  deck.  It  wavered  in  patches,  it  seemed  to  stir  and 
creep  like  the  light  of  a  glowworm.  I  saw  it  first,  and 
told  Mahon.  '  Then  the  game's  up,'  he  said.  '  We  had 
better  stop  tliis  towing,  or  she  will  burst  out  suddenly 
fore  and  aft  before  we  can  clear  out.'    We  set  up  a  yell ; 

{  32  1 


Y  O  U  T  H 

rang  bells  to  attract  their  attention  ;  they  towed  on.  At 
iast  Mahon  and  I  had  to  crawl  forward  and  cut  the  rope 
with  an  ax.  There  was  no  time  to  cast  off  the  lashings. 
Red  tongues  could  be  seen  licking  the  wilderness  of 
splinters  under  our  feet  as  we  made  our  way  back  to  the 
pcop. 

"  Of  course  they  very  soon  found  out  in  the  steamer 
that  the  rope  v/as  gone.  She  gave  a  loud  blast  of  her 
Vi  histle,  her  lights  were  seen  sweeping  in  a  wide  circle,  she 
came  up  ranging  close  alongside,  and  stopped.  We  were 
all  in  a  tight  group  on  the  poop  looking  at  her.  Every 
man  had  saved  a  little  bundle  or  a  bag.  Suddenly  a  con- 
ical flame  with  a  twisted  top  shot  up  forward  and  threw 
upon  the  black  sea  a  circle  of  light,  with  the  two  vessels 
side  by  side  and  heaving  gently  in  its  center.  Captain 
Beard  had  been  sitting  on  the  gratings  still  and  mute  for 
hours,  but  now  he  rose  slowh'  and  advanced  in  front  of 
us,  to  the  R-izzen-shrouds.  Captain  Nash  hailed :  '  Com.e 
along!  Look  sharp.  I  have  mail-bags  on  board.  I  will 
take  you  and  your  boats  to  Singapore.' 

"  '  Thank  you !  No ! '  said  our  skipper.  '  We  must  see 
the  iast  of  the  ship.' 

"  '  I  can't  stand  by  any  longer,'  shouted  the  othero 
'  Mails — you  know.' 

"  '  Ay  !   ay  !   We  are  aU  right.' 

" '  Very  well !  I'll  report  you  in  Singapore.  .  .  . 
Good-by ! ' 

"  He  waved  his  hand.  Our  men  dropped  their  bundles 
quietly.  The  steamer  moved  ahead,  and  passing  out  of 
the  circle  of  light,  vanished  at  once  from  our  sight,  daz- 

[  33  ] 


YOUTH 

zled  by  the  fire  which  burned  fiercely.  And  then  I  kne^f 
that  I  would  see  the  East  first  as  commander  of  a  small 
boat.  I  thought  it  fine ;  and  the  fidelity  to  the  old  ship 
was  fine.  We  should  see  the  last  of  her.  Oh  the  glamour 
of  youth!  Oh  the  fire  of  it,  more  dazzling  than  the 
flames  of  the  burning  ship,  throwing  a  magic  light  on  tl-j 
W'ide  earth,  leaping  audaciously  to  the  sky,  presently  to 
be  quenched  by  time,  more  cruel,  more  pitiless,  more 
bitter  than  the  sea — and  like  the  flames  of  the  burniag 
ship  surrounded  by  an  impenetrable  night. 


"  The  old  man  warned  us  in  his  gentle  and  inflexibk 
way  that  it  was  part  of  our  duty  to  save  for  the  under- 
writers as  much  as  we  could  of  the  ship's  gear.  Accord!- 
ing  we  went  to  work  aft,  while  she  blazed  forward  to  give 
us  plenty  of  light.  We  lugged  out  a  lot  of  rubbish. 
What  didn't  we  save.'^  An  old  barometer  fixed  with  a» 
absurd  quantity  of  screws  nearly  cost  me  my  life:  a. 
sudden  rush  of  smoke  came  upon  me,  and  I  just  got 
away  in  time.  There  were  various  stores,  bolts  of  canvas, 
coils  of  rope ;  the  poop  looked  like  a  marine  bazaar,  and 
the  boats  were  lumbered  to  the  gunwales.  One  would 
have  thought  the  old  man  wanted  to  take  as  much  as  lie 
could  of  his  first  command  with  him.  He  was  very,  very 
quiet,  but  ofl*  his  balance  evidently.  W^ould  3^ou  believe 
it?  He  wanted  to  take  a  length  of  old  stream-cable  and 
a  kedge-anchor  with  him  in  the  long-boat.  We  said, 
*  Ay,  ay,  sir,'  deferentialhs  and  on  the  quiet  let  the 
thing  slip  overboard.      The  heavy  medicine-chest  went 

[  34  ] 


YOUTH 

hat  way,  two  bags  of  green  coffee,  tins  of  paint — ^fancy, 
>aiut! — a  whole  lot  of  things.  Then  I  was  ordered  with 
:wo  hands  into  the  boats  to  make  a  stowage  and  get  them 
'eady  against  the  time  it  would  be  proper  for  us  to  leave 
:he  ship. 

"We  put  everything  straight,  stepped  the  long-boat's 
mast  for  outT  skipper,  who  was  to  take  charge  of  her,  and 
[  was  not  sorry  to  sit  down  for  a  moment.  My  face  felt 
raw,  every  limb  ached  as  if  broken,  I  was  aware  of  all 
iiy  ribs,  and  would  have  s\\'orn  to  a  twist  in  the  back- 
bone. The  boats,  fast  astern,  lay  in  a  deep  shadow,  and 
all  around  I  could  see  the  circle  of  the  sea  lighted  by  the 
re.  A  gigantic  flame  arose  forward  straight  and  clear. 
It  flared  fierce,  with  noises  like  the  whir  of  wings,  with 
ruu-bles  as  of  thunder.  There  were  cracks,  detonations, 
and  from  the  cone  of  flame  the  sparks  flew  upwards,  as 
man  is  born  to  trouble,  to  leaky  ships,  and  to  ships  that 
burn. 

What  bothered  me  was  that  the  ship,  lying  broadside 
to  the  swell  and  to  such  wind  as  there  was — a  mere  breath 
— the  boats  would  not  keep  astern  where  they  were  safe, 
but  persisted,  in  a  pig-headed  way  boats  have,  in  getting 
under  the  counter  and  then  swinging  alongside.  They 
were  knocking  about  dangerously  and  coming  near  the 
flame,  while  the  ship  rolled  on  them,  and,  of  course,  there 
was  always  the  danger  of  the  masts  going  over  the  side 
at  any  moment.  I  and  my  two  boat-keepers  kept  them 
off  as  best  we  could  with  oars  and  boat-hooks ;  but  to  be 
const anti}-  at  it  became  exasperating,  since  there  was  no 
reason  why  we  should  not  leave  at  once.     We  could  not 

[  35  ] 


YOUTH 

see  those  on  board,  nor  could  we  imagine  what  caused  thi 
delay.  The  boat-keepers  v/ere  swearing  feebly,  and  '. 
had  not  only  my  share  of  the  work,  but  also  had  to  keej 
at  it  tvro  men  who  showed  a  constant  inclination  to  la} 
themselves  down  and  let  things  slide. 

'^  At  last  I  hailed  '  On  deck  there,'  and  someone  lookec. 
over.  '  We're  ready  iiere,'  I  said.  The  head  disap- 
peared, and  very  soon  popped  up  again.  '  The  captain 
says.  All  right,  sir,  and  to  keep  the  boats  v/ell  clear  of  the 
ship.' 

"  Half  an  hour  passed.  Suddenly  there  was  a  frightful 
racket,  rattle,  clanking  of  chain,  hiss  of  water,  and  mil- 
JioRS  of  sparks  fiew  up  into  the  shivering  column  of  smoke 
that  stood  leaning  slightly  above  the  ship.  The  cat- 
lieads  had  burned  awa}^,  and  the  two  red-hot  anchors  had 
gone  to  the  bottom,  tearing  out  after  them  two  hundred 
fathom  of  red-hot  chain.  The  ship  trembled,  the  mass  of 
flame  Swayed  as  if  ready  to  collapse,  and  the  fore  top- 
gallant-mast fell.  It  darted  down  like  an  arrow  of  fire, 
shot  under,  and  instantly  leaping  up  within  an  oar's- 
length  of  the  boats,  floated  quietly,  very  black  on  the 
luminous  sea.  I  hailed  the  deck  again.  After  some  time 
a  man  in  an  unexpectedly  cheerful  but  also  muiSed  tone, 
as  though  he  had  been  tr3ang  to  speak  with  his  mouth 
shut,  informed  me,  '  Coming  directly,  sir,'  and  vanished. 
For  a  long  time  I  heard  nothing  but  the  whir  and  roar 
of  the  fire.  There  were  also  v/histling  sounds.  The  boats 
jumped,  tugged  at  the  painters,  ran  at  each  other  play- 
fully, knocked  their  sides  together,  or,  do  what  we  would, 
swung  in  a  bunch  against  the  ship's  side.     I  couldn't 

[  36  ] 


YOUTH 

Hand  it  any  longer,  and  swarming  up  a  rope,  clambered 
board  over  the  stern. 

"Jt  was  as  bright  as  day.     Coming  up  like  this,  the 
heet  of  fire  facing  me,  was  a  terrifj^ing  sight,  and  the 
leat  seemed  hardly  bearable  at  first.     On  a  settee  cushion 
Iragged  out  of  the  cabin.  Captain  Beard,  with  his  legs 
Irawn  up  and  one  arm  under  his  head,  slept  with  the  light 
Dlaying  on  him.     Do  you.  know  w^hat  the  rest  were  busy 
ibout.^     They  were  sitting  on  deck  right  aft,  round  an 
>pen  case,  eating  bread  and  cheese  and  drinking  bottled 
jtout. 
j  "  On  the  background  of  flames  twisting  in  fierce  tongues 
"above  their  heads  they  seemed  at  home  like  salamanders, 
land  looked  like  a  band  of  desperate  pirates.     The  fire 
sparkled  in  the  whites  of  their  eyes,  gleamed  on  patclies 
of  v.hite  skin  seen  through  the  torn  shirts.     Each  had 
the  marks  as  of  a  battle  about  him — bandaged  heads, 
tied-up  arms,  a  strip  of  dirty  rag  round  a  knee — and 
each  mtxn  had  a  bottle  between  his  legs  and  a  chunk  of 
cheese  in  his  hand.     Mahcn  got  up.     With  his  handsome 
and  disreputable  head,  his  hooked  profile,  liis  long  white 
beard,  and  with  an  uncorked  bottle  in  his  hand,  he  re- 
sembled one  of  those  reckless  sea-robbers  of  old  making 
merry  amidst  violence  and  disaster.     '  The  last  meal  on 
board,'  he  explained  solemnly.     '  We  had  nothing  to  eat 
all  day,  and  it  was  no  use  leaving  all  this.'    He  flourished 
the  bottle  and  indicated  the  sleeping  skipper.     '  He  said 
he  couldn't  swallow  anything,  so  I  got  him  to  lie  down,' 
he  went  on ;   and  as  I  stared,  '  I  don't  know  whether  you 
are  aware,  young  fellow,  the  man  had  no  sleep  to  speak 

[  37  ] 


YOUTH 

of  for  days — and  there  \riU  be  dam'  little  sleep  in  thi 
boats.'  '  There  will  be  no  boats  by-and-bj  if  you  foil 
about  much  longer,'  I  said,  indignantly.  I  walked  up  tc 
the  skipper  and  shook  him  b}^  the  slioulder.  At  ksl  ^ 
opened  his  eyes,  but  did  not  move.  '  Time  to  leave  ■  -  r, 
sir,'  I  said,  quietly. 

"  He  got  up  painfullj^,  looked  at  the  fhimes,  at  tl.c  sea 
sparkling  round  the  ship,  and  black,  black  as  ink  i&.nhis 
away ;  he  looked  at  the  stars  shining  dim  through  <i  tliin 
veil  of  smoke  in  a  sk3^  black,  black  as  Erebus. 

"  '  Youngest  first,'  he  said. 

"  And  tiie  ordinary  seaman,  wiping  his  mouth  wit};  the 
back  of  his  hand,  got  up,  clambered  over  the  taifrail,  and 
vanished.  Others  followed.  One,  on  the  point  of  going 
over,  stopped  short  to  drain  his  bottle,  and  with  a  f;--  at 
swing  of  his  arm  flung  it  at  the  fire.  *  Take  this '  '  he 
cried. 

"  The  skipper  lingered  disconsolately,  and  we  left  him 
to  commune  alone   for  awhile  with  his  first   command 
Then  I  went  up  again  and  brought  him  away  at  last,     li 
was  time.     The  ironwork  on  the  poop  was  hot  to  the 
touch. 

"  Then  the  painter  of  the  long-boat  was  cut,  and  tl;e 
three  boats,  tied  together,  drifted  clear  of  the  ship.  It 
was  just  sixteen  hours  after  the  explosion  when  we  aban-  i 
doned  her.  Mahon  had  charge  of  the  second  boat,  and  I 
had  the  smallest — the  14-foot  thing.  The  long-boat 
would  have  taken  the  lot  of  us;  but  tlie  skipper  said  we 
must  save  as  much  property  as  we  could — for  the  under- 
writers— and  so  I  got  my  first  command.     I  had  two  intn 

[  38  1 


YOU  T  H 

with  me,  a  bag  of  biscuits,  a  few  tins  of  meat,  and  a 
breaker  of  water.  I  was  ordered  to  keep  close  to  the 
loag-boat,  that  in  case  of  bad  weather  we  might  be  taken 
into  her. 

"  And  do  jou  know  what  I  thought.?  I  thought  I 
would  part  company  as  soon  as  I  could.  I  wanted  to 
have  my  first  command  all  to  myself.  I  wasn't  going  to 
sail  in  a  squadron  if  there  were  a  chance  for  independ- 
ent cruising.  I  would  make  land  by  myself.  I  would 
beat  the  other  boats.  Youth!  All  youth!  The  silly, 
ckarming,  beautiful  youth. 

"•  But  we  did  not  make  a  start  at  once.  We  must  see 
tite  last  of  the  ship.  And  so  the  boats  drifted  about  that 
HJght,  heaving  and  setting  on  the  swell.  The  men  dozed, 
waked,  sighed,  groaned.  I  looked  at  the  burning  ship. 
4,'*  Between  the  darknesi  of  earth  and  heaven  she  was 
burning  fiercely  upon  a  disc  of  purple  sea  shot  by  the 
blood-red  play  of  gleams ;  upon  a  disc  of  water  glitter- 
ing and  sinister.  A  high,  clear  flame,  an  immense  and 
}»aely  flame,  ascended  from  the  ocean,  and  from  its  sum- 
mit the  black  smoke  poured  continuously  at  the  sky.  She 
burned  furiously,  mournful  and  imposing  like  a  funeral 
pile  kindled  in  the  night,  surrounded  by  the  sea,  watched 
over  by  the  stars.  A  magnificent  death  had  come  like  a 
grace,  like  a  gift,  like  a  reward  to  that  old  ship  at  the 
end  of  her  laborious  days.  The  surrender  of  her  weary 
glliost  to  the  keeping  of  stars  and  sea  was  stirring  like  the 
sight  of  a  glorious  triumph.  The  masts  fell  just  before 
daybreak,  and  for  a  moment  there  was  a  burst  and  tur- 
i^ioil  of  sparks  that  seemed  to  fill  with  flying  fire  the  night 


YOUTH 

patient  and  watchful,  the  vast  night  lying  silent  upon 
the  sea.  At  daylight  she  was  only  a  charred  shell,  float- 
ing still  under  a  cloud  of  smoke  and  bearing  a  glowing 
mass  of  coal  within. 

"  Then  the  oars  were  got  out,  and  the  boats  forming  in 
a  line  moved  round  her  remains  as  if  in  procession — ^the 
long-boat  leading.  As  vre  pulled  across  her  stern  a  slim 
dart  of  fire  shot  out  viciously  at  us,  and  suddenly  she 
went  down,  head  first,  in  a  great  hiss  of  steam.  The 
unconsumed  stern  was  the  last  to  sink ;  but  the  paint  had 
gone,  had  cracked,  had  peeled  off,  and  there  were  no 
letters,  there  was  no  word,  no  stubborn  device  that  v/as 
like  her  soul,  to  flash  at  the  rising  sun  her  creed  and  her 
name. 

"  We  made  our  way  north.  A  breeze  sprang  up,  and 
about  noon  all  the  boats  came  together  for  the  last  time. 
I  had  no  mast  or  sail  in  mine,  but  I  made  a  mast  out  of  a 
spare  oar  and  hoisted  a  boat-awning  for  a  sail,  with  a 
boat-hook  for  a  3^ard.  She  was  certainly  over-m.asted, 
but  I  had  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  v/ith  the  wind 
aft  I  could  beat  the  other  two.  I  had  to  wait  for  them. 
Then  we  all  had  a  look  at  the  captain's  chart,  and,  after 
a  sociable  meal  of  hard  bread  and  water,  got  our  last 
instructions.  These  were  simple:  steer  north,  and  keep 
together  as  much  as  possible.  '  Be  careful  with  that 
jury  rig,  Marlow,'  said  the  captain;  and  Mahon.  as  I 
sailed  proudly  past  his  boat,  \\Tinkled  his  curved  nose 
and  hailed,  '  You  will  sail  that  ship  of  ^^ours  under 
water,  if  you  don't  look  out,  young  fellow.'  He  was  a 
malicious  old  man — and  may  the  deep  sea  where  he  sleeps 

[  40  ] 


YOUTH 

now  rock  him  gently,  rock  him  tenderly  to  the  end  of 
time ! 

"  Before  sunset  a  thick  rain-squall  passed  over  the  two 
boats,  which  were  far  astern,  and  that  was  the  last  I 
saw  of  them  for  a  time.  Next  day  I  sat  steering  my 
cockle-shell — my  first  command — with  nothing  but  water 
and  sky  around  me.  I  did  sight  in  the  afternoon  the 
upper  sails  of  a  ship  far  away,  but  said  nothing,  and  m^* 
men  did  not  notice  her.  You  see  I  was  afraid  she  might"" 
be  homeward  bound,  and  I  had  no  mind  to  turn  back 
from,  the  portals  of  the  East.  I  was  steering  for  Java — 
another  blessed  name — like  Bankok,  3'ou  know.  I  steered 
many  dsijs. 

"  I  need  not  tell  you  what  it  is  to  be  knocking  about  in 
an  open  boat.  I  remember  nights  and  days  of  calm  when 
we  pulled,  we  pulled,  and  the  boat  seemed  to  stand  still, 
as  if  bevv itched  Y/it!:in  the  circle  of  the  sea  horizon.  I 
rem.ember  the  heat,  the  deluge  of  rain-squalls  that  kept 
us  baling  for  dear  life  (but  filled  our  water-cask),  and  I 
remxcmber  sixteen  hours  on  end  with  a  mouth  dry  as  a 
cinder  and  a  steering-car  over  the  stern  to  keep  my  first 
command  head  on  to  a  breaking  sea.  I  did  not  know  how 
good  a  m.an  I  was  till  then.  I  remember  the  drawn  faces, 
the  dejected  figures  cf  my  two  men,  and  I  remember  my 
youth  and  the  feeling  that  will  never  come  back  any 
more — the  feeling  that  I  could  last  for  ever,  outlast  the 
eea,  the  earth,  and  all  men;  the  deceitful  feeling  that 
lures  us  on  to  joys,  to  perils,  to  love,  to  vain  effort — to 
death;  the  triumphant  conviction  of  strength,  the  heat 
of  life  in  the  handful  of  dust,  the  glow  in  the  heart  that 

[  41  ] 


YOUTH 

with  every  year  grows  dim,  grows  cold,  grows  small,  and  ex- 
pires— and  expires,  too  soon,  too  soon — before  life  itself- 

"  And  this  is  how  I  see  the  East.  I  have  seen  its  secret 
places  and  have  looked  into  its  very  soul;  but  now  I  see 
it  Mhva3^s  from  a  small  boat,  a  high  outline  of  mountains., 
blue  and  afar  in  the  morning ;  like  faint  mist  at  noon ;  a 
jcigged  wall  of  purple  at  sunset.  I  have  the  feel  of  the 
oar  in  my  hand,  the  vision  of  a  scorching  blue  sea  in  my 
eyes.  And  I  see  a  bay,  a  wide  bay,  smooth  as  glass  and 
polished  like  ice,  shimmering  in  the  dark.  A  red  light 
burns  far  off  upon  the  gloom  of  the  land,  and  the  night 
is  soft  and  warm.  We  drag  at  the  oars  with  aching  arms, 
and  suddenty  a  puff  of  wind,  a  puff  faint  and  tepid  and 
laden  with  strange  odors  of  blossoms,  of  aromatic  wood, 
comes  out  of  the  still  night— the  first  sigh  of  the  East  on 
i«T  face.  That  I  can  never  forget.  It  was  impalpable 
a«d  enslaving,  like  a  charm,  like  a  whispered  promise  of 
mysterious  delight. 

*•  We  had  been  pulling  tliis  finishing  spell  for  elevcR 
hours.  Two  pulled,  and  he  whose  turn  it  was  to  rest  sat 
at  the  tiller.  We  had  made  out  the  red  light  in  that  bay 
aud  steered  for  it,  guessing  it  must  mark  some  small 
coasting  port.  We  passed  two  vessels,  outlandish  and 
high-sterned,  sleeping  at  anchor,  and,  approaching  the 
liglit,  now  very  dim,  ran  the  boat's  nose  against  the  end 
of  a  jutting  wharf.  We  were  blind  with  fatigue.  My 
Men  dropped  the  oars  and  fell  off  the  thwarts  as  if  dead. 
I  made  fast  to  a  pile.  A  current  rippled  softly.  The 
scented  obscurity  of  the  shore  was  grouped  into  vast 
masses,  a  density  of  colossal  clumps  of  vegetation,  prob- 

[42] 


YOUTH 

jibly — mute  and  fantastic  shapes.  And  at  their  foot  tlie 
semicircle  of  a  beach  gleamed  faintly,  like  an  illusion. 
There  was  not  a  light,  not  a  stir,  not  a  sound.  The  mys- 
terious East  faced  me,  perfumed  like  a  flower,  silent  like 
death,  dark  hke  a  grave. 

"  And  I  sat  weary  beyond  expression,  exulting  like  a 
conqueror,  sleepless  and  entranced  as  if  before  a  pro- 
found, a  fateful  enigma. 

"  A  splashing  of  oars,  a  measured  dip  reverberating 
on  the  level  of  water,  intensified  by  the  silence  of  the 
shore  into  loud  claps,  made  me  jump  up.  A  boat,  a 
European  boat,  was  coming  in.  I  invoked  the  name 
of  the  dead;  I  hailed:  Jiidea  ahoy!  A  thin  shout  an- 
swered. 

"  It  was  the  captain.  I  had  beaten  the  flagship  by  three 
hours,  and  I  was  glad  to  hear  the  old  man's  voice  again, 
tremulous  and  tired.  *Is  it  you,  Marlow?'  *Mind  the 
end  of  that  jetty,  sir,'  I  cried. 

"  He  approached  cautiously,  and  brought  up  with  the 
deep-sea  lead-line  which  we  had  saved — for  the  under- 
writers. I  eased  my  painter  and  fell  alongside.  He 
sat,  a  broken  figure  at  the  stern,  wet  with  dew,  his  hands 
clasped  in  his  lap.  His  men  were  asleep  already.  '  I 
had  a  terrible  time  of  it,'  he  murmured.  '  Mahon  is  h^ 
}iind — not  very  far.'  We  conversed  in  whispers,  in  low 
whispers,  as  if  afraid  to  wake  up  the  land.  Guns,  thun- 
der, earthquakes  would  not  have  awakened  the  men  just 
then. 

"  Looking  around  as  we  talked,  I  saw  away  at  sea  a 
bright  hght  travehng  in  the  night.     '  There's  a  steamer 

r  43  J 


YOUTH 

passing  the  bay,'  I  said.  She  was  not  passing,  she  was 
entering,  and  she  even  came  close  and  anchored.  '  I 
wish,'  said  the  old  man,  '  3^cu  v/ould  find  out  whether  she 
is  English.  Perhaps  they  could  give  us  a  passage  som^e- 
where.'  He  seemed  nervously  anxious.  So  by  dint  of 
punching  and  kicking  I  started  one  of  my  men  into  a 
state  of  somnambulism,  and  giving  him  an  oar,  took 
another  and  pulled  towards  the  lights  of  the  steamer. 

"  There  was  a  murmur  of  voices  in  her,  metallic  hollow 
clangs  of  the  engine-room,  footsteps  on  the  deck.  Her 
ports  shone,  round  like  dilated  eyes.  Shapes  moved 
about,  and  there  was  a  shadowy  man  high  up  on  the 
bridge.     He  heard  my  oars. 

"  And  then,  before  I  could  open  my  lips,  the  East  spoke 
to  me,  but  it  was  in  a  Western  voice.  A  torrent  of  v/ords 
was  poured  into  the  enigmatical,  the  fateful  silence ; 
outlandish,  angry  vrords,  mixed  with  words  and  even 
whole  sentences  of  good  English,  less  strange  but  even 
more  surprising.  The  voice  swore  and  cursed  violently ; 
it  riddled  the  solemn  peace  of  the  bay  by  a  volley  of 
abuse.  It  began  by  calling  me  Pig,  and  from  that  went 
crescendo  into  unmentionable  adj ectives-;— in  English. 
The  man  up  there  raged  aloud  in  two  languages,  and 
with  a  sincerity  in  his  fury  that  almost  convinced  me  I 
had,  in  some  way,  sinned  against  the  harmony  of  the 
universe.  I  could  hardly  see  liim,  but  began  to  think  he 
would  work  himself  into  a  fit. 

"  Suddenly  he  ceased,  and  I  could  hear  him  snorting  and 
blowing  like  a  porpoise.     I  said — 

"  '  What  steamer  is  this,  pray .'' ' 
[  44  ] 


YOUTH 

"  '  Eh?    What's  this?    And  who  are  you?  ' 

"  '  Castaway  crew  of  an  English  bark  burnt  at  sea. 
We  came  here  to-night.  I  am  the  second  mate.  The 
captain  is  in  the  Icng-boat,  and  wishes  to  know  if  you 
would  give  us  a  passage  somewhere.' 

"  '  Oh,  my  goodness !  I  sa}^  .  .  .  This  is  the  Celestial 
from  Singapore  on  her  return  trip.  I'll  arrange  with 
3^our  captain  in  the  m.orning,  .  .  .  and,  ...  I  say, 
,   .   .   did  3^ou  hear  me  just  now?  ' 

"  '  I  should  think  the  whole  bay  heard  you.' 

"  '  I  thought  you  were  a  shore-boat.  Now,  look  here — 
this  infernal  lazy  scoundrel  of  a  caretaker  has  gone  to 
sleep  again — curse  him.  The  light  is  out,  and  I  nearly 
ran  foul  of  the  end  of  this  damned  jetty.  This  is  the 
third  time  he  plays  me  this  trick.  Now,  I  ask  you,  can 
an^^body  stand  this  kind  of  thing?  It's  enough  to  drive 
a  man  out  of  his  mind.  I'll  report  him.  .  .  .  I'll  get  the 
Assistant  Resident  to  give  him  the  sack,  by  .  .  .  See — 
there's  no  light.  It's  out,  isn't  it?  I  take  you  to  witness 
the  Hght's  out.  There  should  be  a  light,  you  know.  A 
red  light  on  the ' 

"  '  There  was  a  light,'  I  said,  mildly.  I 

"  '  But  it's  out,  man !  What's  the  use  of  talking  like 
this?  You  can  see  for  yourself  it's  out — don't  you?  If 
you  had  to  take  a  valuable  steamer  along  this  God-for- 
saken coast  you  would  want  a  light  too.  I'll  kick  him 
from  end  to  end  of  his  miserable  wharf.  You'll  see  if  I 
don't.     I  will ' 

"  '  So  I  may  tell  my  captain  you'll  take  us  ?  '  I  broke  in. 

"  '  Yes,  I'll  take  you.  Good  night,'  he  said,  brusquely. 
[   45   ] 


YOUTH 

"  I  pulled  back,  made  fast  again  to  the  jetty,  and  then 
went  to  sleep  at  last.  I  had  faced  the  silence  of  the 
East.  I  had  heard  some  of  its  languages.  But  when  I 
opened  my  eyes  again  the  silence  was  as  complete  as 
though  it  had  never  been  broken.  I  was  lying  in  a 
flood  of  light,  and  the  sky  had  never  looked  so  far,  so 
high,  before.     I  opened  my  eyes  and  lay  without  moving. 

"  And  then  I  saw  the  men  of  the  East — they  were 
looking  at  me.  The  whole  length  of  the  jetty  was 
full  of  people.  I  saw  brown,  bronze,  yellow  faces, 
the  black  eyes,  the  glitter,  the  color  of  an  Eastern 
crowd.  And  all  these  beings  stared  without  a  mur- 
mur, without  a  sigh,  without  a  movement.  They 
stared  down  at  the  boats,  at  the  sleeping  men  who  at 
night  had  come  to  them  from  the  sea.  Nothing  moved. 
The  fronds  of  palms  stood  still  against  the  sky.  Not  a 
branch  stirred  along  the  shore,  and  the  brown  roofs  of 
hidden  houses  peeped  through  the  green  foliage,  through 
the  big  leaves  that  hung  shining  and  still  like  leaves 
forged  of  heavy  metal.  This  was  the  East  of  the  ancient 
navigators,  so  old,  so  mysterious,  resplendent  and 
somber,  living  and  unchanged,  full  of  danger  and  prom- 
ise. And  these  were  the  men.  I  sat  up  suddenly.  A 
wave  of  movement  passed  through  the  crowd  from  end 
to  end,  passed  along  the  heads,  swayed  the  bodies,  ran 
along  the  jetty  like  a  ripple  on  the  water,  like  a  breath 
of  wind  on  a  field — and  all  was  still  again.  I  see  it  now 
— the  wide  sweep  of  the  bay,  the  glittering  sands,  the 
wiealth  of  green  infinite  and  varied,  the  sea  blue  like  the 
sea  of  a  dream,  the  crowd  of  attentive  faces,  the  biaze  of 

[  46  ] 


YOUTH 

vivid  color — the  water  reflecting  it  all,  the  curve  of  tlie 
shore,  the  jettj,  the  high-sterned  outlandish  craft  float- 
ing still,  and  the  three  boats  with  tired  men  from  the 
West  sleeping  unconscious  of  the  land  and  the  people 
and  of  the  violence  of  sunshine.  They  slept  thrown 
across  the  thwarts,  curled  on  bottom-boards,  in  the  care- 
less attitudes  of  death.  The  head  of  the  old  skipper, 
leaning  back  in  the  stern  of  the  long-boat,  had  fallen  on 
his  breast,  and  he  looked  as  though  he  would  never  wake. 
Farther  out  old  Mahon's  face  was  upturned  to  the  sky. 
with  the  long  white  beard  spread  out  on  his  breast,  as 
though  he  been  shot  where  he  sat  at  the  tiller;  and  a 
man,  all  in  a  heap  in  the  bows  of  the  boat,  slept  with  both 
arms  embracing  the  stem-head  and  with  his  cheek  laid  on 
the    gunwale.    The  East  looked  at  them  without  a  sound. 

"  I  have  known  its  fascinations  since :  I  have  seen  the 
mysterious  shores,  the  stilJ  water,  the  lands  of  brown  na- 
tions, where  a  stealthy  Nemesis  lies  in  wait,  pursues, 
overtakes  so  many  of  the  conquering  race,  who  are  prou^ 
of  tlieir  wisdom,  of  their  knowledge,  of  their  strength. 
But  for  me  all  the  East  is  contained  in  that  vision  of  my 
youth.  It  is  all  in  that  moment  when  I  opened  my  young 
eyes  on  it.  I  came  upon  it  from  a  tussle  with  the  sea — 
and  I  was  young — and  I  saw  it  looking  at  me.  And  this 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  it!  Only  a  moment;  a  moment  of 
'  trength,  of  romance,  of  glamour — of  youth !  .  .  .  A. 
flick  of  sunshine  upon  a  strange  shore,  the  time  to  re- 
K^.ember,  the  time  for  a  sigh,  and — good-by  ! — Night — 
Good-by    ...     I" 

He  drank. 

t  47  1 


YOUTH 

"  Ah !  The  good  old  time — the  good  old  time.  Youth 
and  the  sea.  Glamour  and  the  sea !  The  good,  strong 
sea,  the  salt,  bitter  sea,  that  could  whisper  to  you  and 
roar  at  you  and  knock  your  breath  out  of  you." 

He  drank  again. 

"  By  all  that's  wonderful,  it  is  the  sea,  I  believe,  the  sea 
itself — or  is  it  ^'outh  alone .^  Who  can  tell?  But  you 
here — jou  all  had  something  out  of  life:  money,  love — 
whatever  one  gets  on  shore — and,  tell  me,  wasn't  that  the 
best  time,  that  time  when  we  were  young  at  sea ;  young 
and  had  nothing,  on  the  sea  that  gives  nothing,  except 
hard  knocks — and  sometimes  a  chance  to  feel  your 
strength — that  only — what  you  all  regret?  " 

And  we  all  nodded  at  him :  the  man  of  finance,  the  man 
of  accounts,  the  man  of  law,  we  all  nodded  at  him  over 
the  polished  table  that  like  a  still  sheet  of  brown  water 
reflected  our  faces,  lined,  wrinkled;  our  faces  marked 
by  toil,  by  deceptions,  by  success,  by  love :  our  weary 
eyes  looking  still,  looking  alv/ays,  looking  anxiously  for 
something  out  of  life,  that  while  it  is  expected  is  already 
gone — has  passed  unseen,  in  a  sigh,  in  a  flash — together 
with  the  youth,  with  the  strength,  wdth  the  romance  of 
illusions. 


48 


F  E  A  K  T    Oh'    D  A  R  K  N  E  S 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 


The  Nellie^  a  cruising  yawl,  swung  to  her  anchor  with- 
out a  flutter  of  the  sails,  and  was  at  rest.  The  flood 
iiad  made,  the  wind  was  nearly  calm,  and  being  bound 
down  the  river,  the  only  thing  for  it  was  to  come  to 
and  wait  for  the  turn  of  the  tide. 

The  sea-reach  of  the  Thames  stretched  before  us  like 
the  beginning  of  an  interminable  waterway.  In  the 
offing  the  sea  and  the  sky  were  welded  together  without 
a  joint,  and  in  the  luminous  space  the  tanned  sails  of 
the  barges  drifting  up  with  the  tiae  seemea  to  stand 
still  in  red  clusters  of  canvas  sharply  peaked,  v>'ith 
gleams  of  varnished  sprits.  A  haze  rested  on  the  low 
f^hores  that  ran  out  to  sea  in  vanishing  flatness.  The 
air  was  dark  above  Gravesend,  and  farther  back  still 
seemed  condensed  into  a  mournful  gloom,  brooding  mo- 
tionless over  the  biggest,  and  the  greatest,  town  on  eai-th. 

The  Director  of  Companies  vras  our  captain  and  our 
Iwst.  We  four  aff'ectionately  watclied  his  back  as  he 
stood  in  the  bows  looking  to  seaward.  On  the  whole 
river  there  was  nothing  that  looked  half  so  nautical.  He 
resembled  a  pilot,  which  to  a  seaman  is  trustwortliiness 
personified.  It  was  difficult  to  realize  his  work  was  not 
out  tjiere  in  the  luminous  estuary,  but  behind  him,  within 
the  brooding  gloom.  ^ 

[  51  ]■ 


^EART    OF    DA 

.ccween  us  there  was,  as  I  have  already  said  some- 
j^vhere,  the  bond  of  the  sea.  Besides  holding  our  hearts 
I  together  through  long  periods  of  separation,  it  had  the 
|eiFect  of  making  us  tolerant  of  each  other's  yarns — and 
even  convictions.  The  Lav/ycr — the  best  of  old  fellov^'s 
— had,  because  of  his  many  years  and  many  virtues,  the 
only  cushion  on  deck,  and  was  lying  on  the  only  rug. 
The  Accountant  had  brought  out  already  a  box  of 
dominoes,  and  was  toying  architecturally  with  the  bones. 
Marlow  sat  cross-legged  right  aft,  leaning  against  the 
mizzen-mast.  Ke  had  sunken  cheeks,  a  yellow  complex- 
ion, a  straight  back,  an  ascetic  aspect,  and,  with  his 
arms  dropped,  the  palms  of  hands  outwards,  resembled 
an  idol.  The  Director,  satisfied  the  anchor  had  good 
hold,  made  his  way  aft  and  sat  down  amongst  us.  We 
exchanged  a  few  words  lazily.  Afterwards  there  was 
silence  on  board  the  yacht.  For  some  reason  or  other 
we  did  not  begin  that  game  of  dominoes.  We  felt  medi- 
tative, and  fit  for  notliing  but  placid  staring.  The  day 
was  ending  in  a  serenity  of  still  and  exquisite  brilliance. 
The  water  shone  pacifically ;  the  sk}',  v/ithout  a  speck, 
was  a  benign  immensity  of  unstained  light;  the  very 
mist  on  the  Essex  marshes  was  like  a  gauzy  and  radiant 
fabric,  hung  from,  the  wooded  rises  inland,  and  draping 
the  low  shores  in  diaphanous  folds.  Only  the  gloom  to 
the  west,  brooding  over  the  upper  reaches,  became  more 
somber  every  minute,  as  if  angered  by  the  approacii 
of  the  sun. 

And  at  last,  in  its  curved  and  imperceptible  fall,  the 
sun  sank  low,  and  from  glowing  white  changed  to  a 

[  52  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

dull  red  without  rays  and  without  heat,  as  if  aboit  to 
go  out  suddenly,  stricken  to  death  by  the  touch  of  that 
gloom  brooding  over  a  cro^vvd  of  men. 

Forthv.ith  a  change  came  over  the  waters,  and  the 
serenity  became  less  brilliant  but  more  profound.  The 
old  river  in  its  broad  reach  rested  unrufHed  at  the  decline 
of  da}^,  after  ages  of  good  service  done  to  the  race  that 
peopled  its  banks,  spread  out  in  the  tranquil  dignity  of 
a  waterway  leading  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth. 
We  looked  at  the  venerable  stream  not  in  the  vivid  flush 
of  a  short  day  that  comes  and  departs  for  ever,  but  in 
the  august  light  of  abiding  memories.  And  indeed 
nothing  is  easier  for  a  man  who  has,  as  the  phrase  goes, 
*'  followed  the  sea  "  with  reverence  and  affection,  than 
to  evoke  the  great  spirit  of  the  past  upon  the  lower 
reaches  of  tlie  Thames.  The  tidal  current  runs  to  and 
fro  in  its  unceasing  service,  crov/ded  v/ith  memories  of 
men  and  ships  it  had  borne  to  the  rest  of  home  or  to  the 
battles  of  the  sea.  It  had  knov/n  and  served  all  the 
men  of  whom  the  nation  is  proud,  from  Sir  Francis 
Brake  to  Sir  John  Franklin,  knights  all,  titled  and  un- 
titled— the  great  knights-errant  of  the  sea.  It  had 
borne  all  the  ships  whose  names  are  like  jewels  flashing 
in  the  night  of  time,  from  the  Golden  Hind  returning 
with  her  round  flanks  full  of  treasure,  to  be  visited  by 
the  Queen's  Highness  and  thus  pass  out  of  the  gigantic 
tale,  to  the  Erebus  and  Terror,  bound  on  other  conquests 
— €ind  that  never, returned.  It  had  known  the  ships  and 
the  m.en.  They  had  sailed  from  Deptford,  from  Green- 
wich, from    Erith — the    adventurers    and    the    settlers; 

I  53  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

kinds'  ships  and  the  ships  of  men  on  'Change;  captains, 
,  tvdmirals.  the  dark  ''  interlopers  "  of  the  Eastern  trade, 
.■uid  the  commissioned  "  generals  "  of  East  India  fleets. 
Hunters  for  gold  or  pursuers  of  fame,  they  all  had  gone 
out  on  that  stream,  bearing  the  sword,  and  often  the 
torch,  messengers  of  the  might  within  the  land,  bearers 
of  a  spark  from  the  sacred  fire.  What  greatness  had 
not  floated  on  the  ebb  of  that  river  into  the  mystery  of 
an  unknown  earth !  .  .  .  The  dreams  of  men,  the  seed 
of  commonwealths,  the  germs  of  empires. 

The  sun  set;  the  dusk  fell  on  the  stream,  and  lights 
began  to  appear  along  the  shore.  The  Chapman  liglit- 
house,  a  three-legged  thing  erect  on  a  mud-flat,  shone 
strongly.  Lights  of  ships  moved  in  the  fairway — a 
great  stir  of  lights  going  up  and  going  down.  And 
farther  west  on  the  upper  reaches  the  place  of  the  mon- 
strous tovrii  was  still  marked  ominously  on  the  sky,  a 
})rooding  gloom  in  sunshine,  a  lurid  glare  under  the 
stars. 

'•  And  this  also,"  said  Marlow  suddenly,  '*  has  been 
one  of  the  dark  places  of  the  earth." 

He  was  the  only  man  of  us  who  still  "  followed  the 
sea."  The  worst  that  could  be  said  of  him  wis  that 
he  did  not  represent  his  class.  He  was  a  seaman,  but  he 
was  a  wanderer  too,  while  most  seamen  lead,  if  one  may 
so  express  it,  a  sedentary  life.  Their  minds  are  of  the 
stay-at-home  order,  and  their  home  is  always  with  them 
— the  ship;  and  so  is  their  country — the  sea.  One  ship 
is  very  much  like  another,  and  the  sea  is  always  the  same. 
In  the  immutability  of  their  surroundings  the  foreign 

[  5*  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

shores,  the  foreign  faces,  the  changing  immensity  of  life, 
ghde  past,  veiled  not  by  a  sense  of  mystery  but  by  a 
sHghtly  disdainful  ignorance ;  for  there  is  nothing  mys- 
terious to  a  seaman  unless  it  be  the  sea  itself,  which  is 
the  mistress  of  his  existence  and  as  inscrutable  as  Destiny. 
For  the  rest,  after  his  hours  of  work,  a  casual  stroll  or 
a  casual  spree  on  shore  suffices  to  unfold  for  him  the 
secret  of  a  whole  continent,  and  generally  he  finds  the 
secret  not  worth  knowing.  The  ^^arns  of  seamen  have  a 
direct  simplicity,  the  whole  meaning  of  which  lies  within 
the  shell  of  a  cracked  nut.  But  Marlow^  was  not  typical 
(if  his  propensity  to  spin  3arns  be  excepted),  and  to 
him  the  meaning  of  an  episode  was  not  inside  like  a 
kernel  but  outside,  enveloping  the  tale  which  brought  it 
out  only  as  a  glow  brings  out  a  haze,  in  the  likeness  of 
one  of  these  misty  halos  that  sometimes  are  made  visible 
by  the  spectral  illumination  of  moonshine. 

His   remark  did   not  seem  at  all  surprising.      It  was 
just  like  Marlow.     It  was  accepted  in  silence.     No  one 
took  the  trouble  to  grunt  even ;  and  presently  he  said, 
i  very  slow  — 

"  I  was  thinking  of  very  old  times,  when  the  Romans 
first  came  here,  nineteen  hundred  years  ago — the  other 
day.  .  .  .  Light  came  out  of  this  river  since — you 
say  Knights  .^  Yes :  but  it  is  like  a  running  blaze  on  a 
plain,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  in  the  clouds.  We  live 
in  the  flicker — may  it  last  as  long  as  the  old  earth  keeps 
rolling!  But  darkness  was  here  yesterday.  Imagine 
the  feelings  of  a  commander  of  a  fine — what  d'ye  caD 
'em.'* — trireme  in  the  Mediterranean,    ordered    suddenly 

[  55  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

to  the  north;  run  overland  across  the  Gauls  in  a  hurry; 
put  in  charge  of  one  of  these  craft  the  legionaries, — a 
wonderful  lot  of  handy  men  they  must  have  been  too — 
used  to  build,  apparently  by  the  hundred,  in  a  month 
or  two,  if  "we  may  believe  'v.  hat  Y,e  read.  Imagine  him 
here — the  very  end  of  the  T,crld.,  a  sea  the  color  of  lead, 
a  sk}^  the  color  cf  smoke,  a  kind  of  ship  about  as  rigid 
as  a  concertina — and  going  up  this  river  with  stores,  or 
orders,  or  what  you  like.  Sandbanks,  marshes,  forests, 
savages, — precious  little  to  eat  fit  for  a  civilized  man, 
nothing  but  Thames  water  to  drink.  No  Falernian  wine 
here,  no  going  ashore.  Kere  and  there  a  military  camp 
lost  in  a  wilderness,  like  a  needle  in  a  bundle  of  hay — 
cold,  fog,  tempests,  disease,  exile,  and  death, — death 
skulking  in  the  air,  in  the  water,  in  the  bush.  They 
must  have  been  dying  like  iiies  here.  Oh  yes — he  did  it. 
Did  it  very  well,  too,  no  doubt,  and  without  thinking 
much  about  it  either,  except  afterwards  to  brag  of  v^hat 
he  had  gone  through  in  his  time,  perhaps.  They  were 
men  enough  to  face  the  darkness.  And  perhaps  he  was 
cheered  by  keeping  his  eye  on  a  chance  of  promotion  to 
the  fleet  at  Ravenna  by-and-by,  if  he  had 'good  friends 
in  Rome  and  survived  the  awful  climate.  Or  think  of 
a  decent  young  citizen  in  a  toga — perhaps  too  much 
dice,  you  knov/ — coming  out  here  in  the  train  of  some 
prefect,  or  tax-gatherer,  or  trader  even,  to  mend  his 
fortunes.  Land  in  a  swamp,  march  through  the  woods, 
and  in  some  inland  post  feel  the  savagery,  the  utter 
savagery,  had  closed  round  him, — all  that  mysterious 
life   of  the  wilderness   that  stirs  in   the   forest,  in  the 

[   ^   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ijungles,  in  the  hearts  of  wild  men.  There's  no  initiation- 
i^ither  into  such  mysteries.  He  has  to  live  in  the  midst 
Df  the  incomprehensible,  which  is  also  detestable.  And 
it  has  a  fascination,  too,  that  goes  to  work  upon  him. 
The  fascination  of  the  abomination — you  know, 
[magine  the  growing  regrets,  the  longing  to  escape,  the 
powerless  disgust,  the  surrender,  the  hate." 
He  paused.  } 

"  Mind,"  he  began  again,  lifting  one  arm  from  the  ■ 
elbow,  the  palm  of  the  hand  outwards,  so  that,  with  his 
legs  folded  before  him,  he  had  the  pose  of  a  Buddha 
preaching  in  European  clothes  and  without  a  lotus- 
flower — "  Mind,  none  of  us  would  feel  exactly  like  this. 
What  saves  us  is  efficiency — the  devotion  to  efficiency. 
But  these  cliaps  were  not  much  account,  really.  They 
were  no  colonists;  their  administration  was  merely  a 
squeeze,  and  nothing  more,  I  suspect.  They  were  con- 
querors, and  for  that  you  want  only  brute  force — nothing 
to  boast  of,  when  you  have  it,  since  your  strength  is 
just  an  accident  arising  from  the  weakness  of  others- 
They  grabbed  what  they  could  get  for  the  sake  of  what 
was  to  be  got.  It  was  just  robbery  wdth  violence,  aggra- 
vated murder  on  a  great  scale,  and  men  going  at  it  blind 
— as  is  very  proper  for  those  who  tackle  a  darkness.  The 
conquest  of  the  earth,  which  moscly  means  the  taking 
it  away  from  tliose  who  have  a  different  complexion  or 
slightly  flatter  noses  than  ourselves,  is  not  a  pretty  thing 
when  you  look  into  it  too  much.  What  redeems  it  is  the 
idea  only.  An  idea  at  the  back  of  it ;  not  a  sentimental 
pretense  but  an  idea ;  and  an  unselfish  belief  in  the  idea. 

[  5'!'  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

^ — scmething  3^ou  can  set  up,  and  bow  down  before,  an 
•offer  a  sacrifice  to.    .     .     . " 

He  broke  off.  Flames  glided  in  the  river,  small  gree 
:Qames,  red  flames,  white  flames,  pursuing,  overtaking 
joining,  crossing  each  other — then^separating  slowly  o 
hastily.  The  traffic  of  the  great  city  went  on  in  th 
deepening  night  upon  the  sleepless  river.  We  lookc( 
on,  waiting  patiently — there  was  nothing  else  to  do  til 
the  end  of  the  flood ;  but  it  was  only  after  a  long  silence 
when  he  said,  in  a  hesitating  voice,  "  I  suppose  ^-ou  fel 
lows  remember  I  did  once  turn  fresh-water  sailor  for  ; 
bit,"  that  we  knew  we  were  fated,  before  the  ebb  begai 
to  run,  to  hear  about  one  of  Marlow's  inconclusive  ex 
periences. 

"  I  don't  want  to  bother  you  much  with  what  hap 
pened  to  me  personallj^,"  he  began,  showing  in  this  re 
mark  the  weakness  of  many  tellers  of  tales  v»ho  seen 
so  often  unaware  of  what  their  audience  vvould  best  lik 
to  hear ;  "  yet  to  understand  the  effect  of  it  on  me  3^01 
ought  to  know  how  I  got  out  there,  what  I  saw,  how 
went  up  that  river  to  the  place  where  I  first  met  th( 
poor  cliap.  It  was  the  farthest  point  of  navigation  anc 
the  culminating  point  of  my  experience.  It  seemed  some- 
how to  throw  a  kind  of  light  on  ever3^thing  about  me 
and  into  m}^  thoughts.  It  v/as  somber  enough  too — anc 
pitiful — not  extraordinary  in  any  way — not  ver}^  cleai 
either.  No,  not  very  clear.  And  yet  it  seemed  to  thro\^ 
a  kind  of  light. 

"  I  had  then,  as  you  remember,  just  returned  to  Lon 
don  after  a  lot  of  Indian  Ocean,  Pacific,  China  Seas — 

[  58  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

a  regular  dose  of  the  East — six  3^ears  or  so,  and  I  was 
loaf:ng  about,  hindering  you  fellows  in  3^our  work  and 
invading  your  homes,  just  as  though  I  had  got  a 
.heavenly  mission  to  civilize  you.  It  was  very  fine  for 
a  time,  but  after  a  bit  I  did  get  tired  of  resting.  Then 
I  began  to  look  for  a  ship — I  should  think  the  hardest 
work  en  earth.  But  the  ships  wouldn't  even  look  at  me. 
And  I  got  tired  of  that  game  too. 

"  Now  when  I  was  a  little  chap  I  had  a  passion  for 
maps.  I  vv^ould  look  for  hours  at  South  America,  or 
Africa,  or  Australia,  and  lose  myself  in  all  the  glories 
of  exploration.  At  that  time  there  were  many  blank 
spaces  on  the  earth,  and  when  I  saw  one  that  looked 
particularly  inviting  on  a  map  (but  they  all  look  that) 
I  vould  put  my  finger  on  it  and  say.  When  I  grow  up 
I  will  go  there.  The  North  Pole  was  one  of  these  places, 
I  rem.ember.  Well,  I  haven't  been  there  yet,  and  shall 
,not  try  now.  The  glamour's  off.  Other  places  vrere 
scattered  about  the  Equator,  and  in  every  sort  of  lati- 
tude all  over  the  two  hemispheres.  I  have  been  in  some 
of  themi,  and  .  .  .  well,  we  won't  talk  about  that.  But 
there  v/as  one  yet — the  biggest,  the  most  blank,  so  to 
speak — that  I  had  a  hankering  after. 

"  True,  by  this  time  it  was  not  a  blank  space  any 
more.  It  had  got  filled  since  my  boyhood  with  rivers 
and  lakes  and  names.  It  had  ceased  to  be  a  blank  space 
of  delightful  mystery — a  white  patch  for  a  boy  to  dream 
gloriously  over.  It  had  become  a  place  of  darkness.  But 
there  was  in  it  one  river  especially,  a  mighty  big  river, 
that  you  could  see  on  the  map,  resembling  an  immense 

[   59   1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

snake  uncoiled,  with  its  head  in  the  sea,  its  body  at 
rest  curving  afar  over  a  vast  country,  and  its  tail  lost 
in  the  depths  of  the  land.  And  as  I  looked  at  the  map 
of  it  in  a  shop-window,  it  fascinated  me  as  a  snake  would 
a  bird — a  silly  little  bird.  Then  I  remembered  there  was 
a  big  concern,  a  Company  for  trade  on  that  river.  Dash 
it  all !  I  thought  to  myself,  they  can't  trade  without 
using  some  kind  of  craft  on  that  lot  of  fresh  water — 
steamboats !  Why  shouldn't  I  try  to  get  charge  of 
one.  I  went  on  along  Fleet  Street,  but  could  not  shake 
off  the  idea.     The  snake  had  charmed  me. 

"  You  understand  it  was  a  Continental  concern,  that 
Trading  societ}^  but  I  have  a  lot  of  relations  living 
on  the  Continent,  because  it's  cheap  and  not  so  nasty 
as  it  looks,  they  say. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  own  I  began  to  worry  them.  This  vras 
already  a  fresh  departure  for  me.  I  was  not  used  to 
get  things  that  way,  you  know.  I  always  went  my  own 
road  and  on  my  own  legs  where  I  had  a  mind  to  go.  I 
w^ouldn't  have  believed  it  of  m^'self ;  but,  then — you  see 
— I  felt  somehow  I  must  get  there  by  hook  or  by  crook. 
So  I  worried  them.  The  men  said  '  M3^  dear  fellow,'  and 
did  nothing.  Then — would  you  believe  it.^^ — I  tried  the 
women.  I,  Charlie  Marlow,  set  the  women  to  work — to 
get  a  job.  Heavens !  Well,  you  see,  the  notion  drove 
me.  I  had  an  aunt,  a  dear  enthusiastic  soul.  She  wrote : 
'  It  will  be  delightful.  I  am  ready  to  do  anything,  any- 
thing for  you.  It  is  a  glorious  idea.  I  know  the  wife 
of  a  very  high  personage  in  the  Administration,  and«| 
also  a  man  who  has  lots  of  influence  with,'  &c.,  &c.     She" 

[  60  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

|ras  determined  to  make  no  end  of  fuss  to  get  me  ap- 
pointed skipper  of  a  river  steamboat,  if  such  was  my 
ancy. 

"  I  got  my  appointment — of  course ;  and  I  got  it  very 
^uick.  It  appears  the  Company  had  received  news  that 
me  of  their  captains  had  been  killed  in  a  scuffle  with 
:he  natives.  This  was  my  chance,  and  it  made  me  the 
.iiore  anxious  to  go.  It  was  only  months  and  months 
afterwards,  when  I  made  the  attempt  to  recover  v>'hat 
was  left  of  the  body,  that  I  heard  the  original  quarrel 
arose  from  a  misunderstanding  about  some  hens.  Yes, 
two  black  hens.  Fresleven — that  was  the  fellow's  name, 
a  Dane — thought  himself  wronged  somehow  in  the  bar- 
gain, so  he  went  ashore  and  started  to  hammer  the  chief 
of  the  village  with  a  stick.  Oh,  it  didn't  surprise  me 
in  the  least  to  hear  this,  and  at  the  same  time  to  be  told 
that  Fresleven  was  the  gentlest,  quietest  creature  that 
ever  walked  on  two  legs.  No  doubt  he  was;  but  he 
had  been  a  couple  of  years  already  out  there  engaged 
in  the  noble  cause,  you  knovr,  and  he  probably  felt  the 
need  at  last  of  asserting  his  self-respect  in  some  way. 
Therefore  he  whacked  the  old  nigger  mercilessly,  while 
a  big  crowd  of  his  people  watched  him,  thunderstruck, 
till  some  man, — I  was  told  the  chief's  son, — in  despera- 
tion at  hearing  the  old  chap  yell,  made  a  tentative  jab 
witli  a  spear  at  the  white  man — and  of  course  it  went 
quite  easy  between  the  shoulder-blades.  Then  the  whole 
population  cleared  into  the  forest,  expecting  all  kinds 
of  calamities  to  happen,  while,  on  the  other  hand,  the 
steamer  Fresleven  commanded  left  also  in  a  bad  panic, 

[  61  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

in  charge  of  the  engineer,  I  believe.  Afterwards  nobody 
seemed  to  trouble  much  about  Fresleven's  remains,  till 
I  got  out  and  stepped  into  his  shoes.  I  couldn't  let 
it  rest,  though;  but  when  an  opportunity  offered  at  last 
to  meet  my  predecessor,  the  grass  growing  through  his 
ribs  was  tall  enough  to  hide  his  bones.  They  were  ail 
there.  The  supernatural  being  had  not  been  touched 
after  he  fell.  And  the  village  was  deserted,  the  huts 
gaped  black,  rotting,  all  askew  within  the  fallen  en- 
closures. A  calamity  had  come  to  it,  sure  enough.  The 
people  had  vanished.  Mad  terror  had  scattered  them, 
men,  women,  and  children,  through  the  bush,  and  they 
had  never  returned.  What  became  of  the  hens  I  don't 
know  either.  I  should  think  the  cause  of  progress  got 
the^^  q,fiyKQ3g.  However,  through  this  glorious  affair  I 
got  my  appointment,  before  I  had  fairly  begun  to  hope 
for  it. 

"  I  flew  around  like  mad  to  get  ready,  and  before  forty- 
eight  hours  I  was  crossing  the  Channel  to  show  myself 
to  my  employers,  and  sign  the  contract.  In  a  very  few 
hours  I  arrived  in  a  city  that  always  makes  me  think  of 
a  whited  sepulcher.  Prejudice  no  doubt.  T  had  no 
difficulty  in  finding  the  Company's  offices.  It  was  the 
biggest  thing  in  the  town,  and  everybody  I  met  was 
full  of  it.  They  were  going  to  run  an  over-sea  empire, 
and  make  no  end  of  coin  by  trade. 

"  A  narrow  and  deserted  street  in  deep  shadow,  high 
houses,  innumerable  windows  with  Venetian  blinds,  a  dead 
silence,  grass  sprouting  between  the  stones,  imposing 
carriage  archways  right  and  left,  immense  double  doors 

[  62  1 


I 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 


tanding  ponderously  ajar.  I  slipped  through  one  of 
:hese  cracks,  went  up  a  swept  and  ungarnished  staircase,. 
^s  arid  as  a  desert,  and  opened  the  first  door  I  came  to. 
Two  women,  one  fat  and  the  other  shm,  sat  on  straw- 
bottomed  chairs,  knitting  black  wool.  The  slim  one  got 
ip  and  walked  straight  at  me — still  knitting  with  down- 
ast  eyes — and  only  just  as  I  began  to  think  of  getting 
3ut  of  her  way,  as  you  would  for  a  somnambulist,  stood 
till,  and  looked  up.  Her  dress  was  as  plain  as  an  um- 
brella-cover, and  she  turned  round  without  a  word  and. 
preceded  me  into  a  waiting-room.  I  gave  my  name,  and 
looked  about.  Deal  table  in  the  middle,  plain  chairs  all 
round  the  v*alls,  on  one  end  a  large  shining  map,  marked 
with  all  the  colors  of  a  rainbow.  There  was  a  vast 
amount  of  red — good  to  see  at  any  time,  because  one- 
knows  that  some  real  work  is  done  in  there,  a  deuce  of  a. 
lot  of  blue,  a  little  green,  smears  of  orange,  and,  on  the 
East  Coast,  a  purple  patch,  to  show  where  the  jolly 
pioneers  of  progress  drink  the  jolly  lager-beer.  How- 
'^ver,  I  wasn't  going  into  any  of  these.  I  was  going; 
into  the  yellow^  Dead  in  the  center.  And  the  river 
was  there — fascinating — deadly — like  a  snake.  Ough  I 
A  door  opened,  a  white-haired  secretarial  head,  but 
wearing  a  compassionate  expression,  appeared,  and  a 
skinny  forefinger  beckoned  me  into  the  sanctuary.  Its 
light  was  dim,  and  a  heavy  writing-desk  squatted  in  the. 
middle.  From  behind  that  structure  came  out  an  im- 
pression of  pale  plumpness  in  a  frock-coat.  The  great 
man  himself.  He  was  five  feet  six,  I  should  judge,  and 
had  his  grip  on  the  handle-end  of  ever  so  many  millions, 

[  68  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

He  shook  hands,  I  fancy,  murmured  vaguely,  was  satis-j 
fied  with  my  French.     Bon  vcjage. 

"  In  about  forty-five  seconds  I  found  myself  again  inj 
the  waiting-room  with  the  compassionate  secretary,  whoi 
full  of  desolation  and  sympathy,  made  me  sign  som^ 
document.     I  believe  I  undertook  amongst  other  tliin< 
not  to  disclose  any  trade  secrets.     Well,  I  am  not  gcinj 
to. 

"  I  began  to  feel  slightly  uneasy.  You  knovr  I  ami 
not  used  to  such  ceremonies,  and  there  was  something 
ominous  in  the  atmosphere.  It  w^as  just  as  though  I 
had  been  let  into  some  conspiracy — I  don't  know — some- 
thing not  quite  right;  and  I  was  glad  to  get  out.  In 
ihe  outer  room  the  two  women  knitted  black  wool  fever- 
ishly. People  w^ere  arriving,'  and  the  younger  one  was 
v/alking  back  and  forth  introducing  them.  The  old 
one  sat  on  her  chair.  Her  flat  cloth  slippers  were 
propped  up  on  a  foot-warmer,  and  a  cat  reposed  on 
her  lap.  She  vrore  a  starched  white  affair  on  her  head, 
had  a  wart  on  one  cheek,  and  silver-rimmed  spectacles 
hung  on  the  tip  of  her  nose.  She  glanced  at  me  above 
the  glasses.  The  swift  and  indifferent  placidity  of  tliat 
look  troubled  me.  Two  youths  with  foolish  and  cheery 
countenances  w^ere  being  piloted  over,  and  she  threw  at 
them  the  same  quick  glance  of  unconcerned  wisdom.  She 
seemed  to  know  all  about  them  and  about  me  too.  An 
eerie  feeling  came  over  me.  She  seemed  uncanny  and 
fateful.  Often  far  away  there  I  thought  of  these  two, 
guarding  the  door  of  Darkness,  knitting  black  wool  as 
for  a  warm  pall,  one  introducing,  introducing  continu- 

[  64  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ously  to  the  unknown,  the  other  scrutinizing  the  cheery 
and  foolish  faces  with  unconcerned  old  eyes.  Ave!  Old 
knitter  of  black  wool.  Morituri  te  salutant.  Not  many 
of  those  she  looked  at  ever  saw  her  again — not  half, 
by  a  long  way. 

"  There  was  yet  a  visit  to  the  doctor.  '  A  simple  for- 
mality,' assured  me  the  secretary,  with  an  air  of  taking 
an  immense  part  in  all  my  sorrows.  Accordingly  a 
young  chap  wearing  his  hat  over  the  left  eyebrow,  some 
clerk  I  suppose, — there  must  have  been  clerks  in  the  busi- 
ness, though  the  house  was  as  still  as  a  house  in  a  city 
of  the  dead, — came  from  somewhere  up-stairs,  and  led 
me  forth.  He  was  shabby  and  careless,  with  ink-stains 
on  the  sleeves  of  his  jacket,  and  his  cravat  was  large  and 
billowy,  under  a  chin  shaped  like  the  toe  of  an  old  boot. 
It  was  a  little  too  early  for  the  doctor,  so  I  proposed 
a  drink,  and  thereupon  he  developed  a  vein  of  joviality. 
As  we  sat  over  our  vermouths  he  glorified  the  Company's 
business,  and  by-and-by  I  expressed  casually  my  sur- 
prise at  him  not  going  out  there.  He  became  very  cool 
and  collected  all  at  once.  '  I  am  not  such  a  fool  as  I 
look,  quoth  Plato  to  his  disciples,'  he  said  sententiously, 
emptied  his  glass  with  great  resolution,  and  we  rose. 

"  The  old  doctor  felt  my  pulse,  evidently  thinking  of 
something  else  the  while.  '  Good,  good  for  there,'  he 
mumbled,  and  then  with  a  certain  eagerness  asked  me 
whether  I  would  let  him  measure  my  head.  Rather  sur- 
prised, I  said  Yes,  when  he  produced  a  thing  like  calipers 
and  got  the  dimensions  back  and  front  and  every  way, 
taking  notes  carefully.     He  was  an  unshaven  little  mao 

[  65  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

in  a  threadbare  coat  like  a  gaberdine,  with  his  feet  in 
slippers,  and  I  thought  him  a  harmless  fool.  *  I  always 
ask  leave,  in  the  interests  of  science,  to  measure  the 
crania  of  those  going  out  there,'  he  said.  '  And  v.hcn 
thej  come  back  too  ?  '  I  asked.  '  Oh,  I  never  see  them,' 
he  remarked ;  '  and,  moreover,  the  changes  take  place  in- 
side, 3^ou  know.'  He  smiled,  as  if  at  some  quiet  joke. 
'  So  you  are  going  out  there.  Famous.  Interesting  too.' 
He  gave  me  a  searching  glance,  and  made  another  note. 
'  Ever  any  madness  in  your  family.'^  '  he  asked,  in  a 
m.atter-of-fact  tone.  I  felt  very  annoyed.  '  Is  that 
question  in  the  interests  of  science  too.'^  '  '  It  would  be,' 
he  said,  without  taking  notice  of  my  irritation,  '  interest- 
ing  for  science  to  watch  the  mental  changes  of  individ- 
uals, on  the  spot,  but  .  .  .'  '  Are  you  an  alienist.?  '  I 
interrupted.  '  Every  doctor  should  be — a  little,'  an- 
swered that  original,  imperturbably.  '  I  have  a  little 
theory  which  you  Messieurs  who  go  out  there  must  help 
me  to  prove.  This  is  my  share  in  the  advantages  my 
country  shall  reap  from  the  possession  of  such  a  mag- 
nificent dependency.  The  mere  wealth  I  leave  to  others. 
Pardon  my  questions,  but  you  are  the  first  Englishman 
coming  under  my  observation.  .  .  . '  I  liastened  to 
assure  him  I  Vv^as  not  in  the  least  typical.  '  If  I  were,' 
said  I,  '  I  wouldn't  be  talking  like  this  vrith  yo^^'  '  What 
you  say  is  rather  profound,  and  probabW  cr-  neous,'  he 
said,  with  a  laugh.  *  Avoid  irritation  more  -n  expos- 
ure to  the  sun.  Adieu.  How  do  you  En'  ''  '-ay,  ch? 
Good-by.     Ah!     Good-by.     Adieu.     In  tl  r  ;ics  one 

must  before  everything  keep  calm.'    ...  lifted  n. 

[  66  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

warning     forefinger.    .    ,    .    '  Dii     calme,      du     calme* 
Adieu.' 

"  One  thing  more  remained  to  do — saj  good-by  to 
my  excellent  aunt.  I  found  lier  triumphant.  I  had  a 
cup  of  tea — the  last  decent  cup  of  tea  for  many  days 
— and  in  a  rc»m  that  most  soothingly  looked  just  as  you 
would  expect  a  lady's  drawing-room  to  look,  we  had  a 
long  quiet  chat  by  the  fireside.  In  the  course  of  these 
confidences  it  became  quite  plain  to  me  I  had  been  repre- 
sented to  the  wife  of  the  high  dignitary,  and  goodness 
knows  to  how  many  more  people  besides,  as  an  excep- 
tional and -gifted  creature — a  piece  of  good  fortune  for 
the  Company — a  man  you  don't  get  hold  of  every  day. 
Good  heavens !  and  I  was  going  to  take  charge  of  a 
two-penny-halfpenny  river-steamboat  with  a  penny 
whistle  attached !  It  appeared,  however,  I  was  also  one 
of  the  Workers,  with  a  capital — you  know.  Somethin^^ 
like  an  emissary  of  light,  something  like  a  lower  sort  '^ 
of  apostle.  There  had  been  a  lot  of  such  rot  let  loosed**- - 
in  print  and  talk  just  about  that  time,  and  the  excellent 
woman,  living  right  in  the  rush  of  all  that  humbug,  got 
carried  off  her  feet.  She  talked  about  '  weaning  those 
ignorant  millions  from  their  horrid  ways,'  till,  upon  my 
vrord,  she  made  me  quite  uncomfortable.  I  ventured  to 
hint  that  the  Company  was  run  for  profit. 

"  '  You  forget,  dear  Charlie,  that  the  laborer  is  worthy 
of  liis  hire,'  she  said,  brightly.  It's  queer  how  out  of 
touch  with  truth  women  are.  They  live  in  a  world  of 
their  own,  and  there  had  never  been  anything  like  it, 
and  never  can  be.     It  is  too  beautiful  altogether,  and 

[  67  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

if  they  were  to  set  it  up  it  would  go  to  pieces  before 
the  first  sunset.  Some  confounded  fact  we  men  have 
been  living  contentedly  with  ever  since  the  day  of  cre- 
ation would  start  up  and  knock  the  whole  thing  over. 

"After  this  I  got  embraced,  told  to  wear  flannel,  be 
sure  to  write  often,  and  so  on — and  I  left.  In  the  street 
- — 1  don't  know  why — a  queer  feeling  came  to  me  that  I 
was  an  impostor.  Odd  thing  that  I,  who  used  to  clear 
mit  for  any  part  of  the  world  at  twenty-four  hours' 
notice,  with  less  thought  than  most  men  give  to  the  cross- 
ing of  a  street,  had  a  moment — I  won't  say  of  hesitation, 
but  of  startled  pause,  before  this  commonplace  affair. 
The  best  way  I  can  explain  it  to  you  is  by  saying  that, 
for  a  second  or  two,  I  felt  as  though,  instead  of  going 
to  the  center  of  a  continent,  I  were  about  to  set  off  for 
the  center  of  the  earth. 

*'  I  left  in  a  French  steamer,  and  she  called  in  every 
blamed  port  they  have  out  there,  for,  as  far  as  I  could 
see,  the  sole  purpose  of  landing  soldiers  and  custom- 
house officers.  I  watched  the  coast.  Watching  a  coast 
as  it  slips  by  the  ship  is  like  thinking  about  an  enigma. 
There  it  is  before  you — smihng,  frowning,  inviting, 
grand,  mean,  insipid,  or  savage,  and  always  mute  with 
an  air  of  whispering.  Come  and  find  out.  This  one  was 
almost  featureless,  as  if  still  in  the  making,  with  an 
aspect  of  monotonous  grimness.  The  edge  of  a  colossal 
jungle,  so  dark-green  as  to  be  almost  black,  fringed 
with  white  surf,  ran  straight,  like  a  ruled  line,  far,  far 
away  along  a  blue  sea  whose  glitter  was  blurred  by  a 
Careeping  mist.     The  sun  was  fierce,  the  land  seemed  to 

[  68  ] 


HEART    OF    DAKKNESS 

glisten  and  drip  with  steam.  Here  and  there  grayish- 
whitish  specks  showed  up,  clustered  inside  the  white  surf, 
with  a  flag  flying  above  them  perhaps.  Settlements  some 
centuries  old,  and  still  no  bigger  than  pin-heads  on  the 
untouched  expanse  of  their  background.  We  pounded 
along,  stopped,  landed  soldiers ;  went  on,  landed  custom- 
house clerks  to  levy  toll  in  what  looked  like  a  God-for- 
saken wilderness,  with  a  tin  shed  and  a  flag-pole  lost  in 
it;  landed  more  soldiers — to  take  care  of  the  custom- 
house clerks,  presumably.  Some,  I  heard,  got  drowned 
in  the  surf ;  but  whether  they  did  or  not,  nobody  seemed 
particularly  to  care.  They  were  just  flung  out  there, 
and  on  we  went.  Every  day  the  coast  looked  the  same, 
as  though  we  had  not  moved;  but  we  passed  various 
places — trading  places — with  names  hke  Gran'  Bassam 
Little  Popo;  names  that  seemed  to  belong  to  some  sordid 
farce  acted  in  front  of  a  sinister  backcloth.  The  idle- 
ness of  a  passenger,  my  isolation  amongst  all  these  men 
with  whom  I  had  no  point  of  contact,  the  oily  and  lan- 
guid sea,  the  uniform  somberness  of  the  coast,  seemed 
to  keep  me  avray  from  the  truth  of  things,  within  the 
toil  of  a  mournful  and  senseless  delusion.  The  voice  of 
the  surf  heard  now  and  then  was  a  positive  pleasure, 
like  the  speech  of  a  brother.  It  was  something  natural, 
that  had  its  reason,  that  had  a  meaning.  Now  and  then 
a  boat  from  the  shore  gave  one  a  momentary  contact 
with  reality.  It  was  paddled  by  black  fellows.  You 
could  see  from  afar  the  white  of  their  eyeballs  glisten- 
ing. They  shouted,  sang;  their  bodies  streamed  with 
perspiration ;  they  had  faces  like  grotesque  masks — ^theee 

[  69  1 


HEAR  I        F    DARKNESS 

chaps ;  but  they  had  bone,  muscle,  a  wild  vitality,  an  in- 
tense energy  of  movement,  that  was  as  natural  and  true 
as  the  surf  along  their  coast.  They  wanted  no  excuse 
for  being  there.  They  v/ere  a  great  comfort  to  look  at. 
For  a  time  I  would  feel  I  belonged  still  to  a  world  of 
straightfoi-ward  facts;  but  the  feeling  would  not  last 
long.  Something  would  turn  up  to  scare  it  away.  Once, 
I  remember,  we  came  upon  a  man-of-war  anchored  off 
the  coast.  There  wasn't  even  a  shed  there,  and  she 
was  shelling  the  bush.  It  appears  the  French  had  one 
of  their  wars  going  on  thereabouts.  Her  ensign  dropped 
limp  like  a  rag;  the  muzzles  of  the  long  six-inch  guns 
stuck  out  all  over  the  low  hull;  the  greasy,  slimy  swell 
swung  her  up  lazily  and  let  her  down,  swaying  her  thin 
masts.  In  the  empty  immensity  of  earth,  sky,  and  water, 
there  she  was,  incomprehensible,  firing  into  a  continent. 
Pop,  would  go  one  of  the  six-inch  guns;  a  small  flame 
ivould  dart  and  vanish,  a  little  white  smoke  would  dis- 
appear, a  tiny  projectile  would  give  a  feeble  screech — 
and  nothing  happened.  Nothing  could  happen.  Tliere 
was  a  touch  of  insanity  in  the  proceeding,  a  sense  of 
lugubrious  drollery  in  the  sight;  and  it  was  not  dissi- 
pated by  somebody  on  board  assuring  me  earnestly  there 
was  a  camp  of  natives — he  called  them  enemies ! — hidden 
out  of  sight  somewhere. 

"  We  gave  her  her  letters  (I  heard  the  men  in  that 
lonely  ship  were  dying  of  fever  at  the  rate  of  three 
a  day)  and  went  on.  We  called  at  some  more  places  with 
farcical  names,  where  the  merry  dance  of  death  and 
trade  goes  on  in  a  still  and  earthy  atmosphere  as  of  an 

[  TO  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

overheated  catacomb;  all  along  the  formless  coast  bor- 
dered by  dangerous  surf,  as  if  Nature  herself  had  tried 
to  ward  off  intruders ;  in  and  out  of  rivers,  streams  of 
death  in  life,  whose  banks  were  rotting  into  mud,  whose 
waters,  thickened  into  slime,  invaded  the  contorted  man- 
groves, that  seemed  to  writhe  at  us  in  the  extremity  of 
an  im^potent  despair.  Novrhere  did  we  stop  long  enough 
to  get  a  particularized  impression,  but  the  general  sense 
of  vague  and  oppressive  v.onder  grew  upon  me.  It  was 
like  a  weary  pilgrimage  amongst  hints  for  night- 
mares. 

"  It  was  upward  of  thirty  days  before  I  saw  the  mouth 
of  the  big  river.  We  anchored  off  the  seat  of  the  gov- 
<jrnment.  But  my  work  would  not  begin  till  some  two 
hundred  miles  farther  on.  So  as  soon  as  I  could  I  made 
a  start  for  a  place  thirty  miles  higher  up. 

"  I  had  my  passage  on  a  little  sea-going  steamer.  Her 
captain  v/as  a  Swede,  and  knowing  m.e  for  a  seaman, 
invited  me  on  the  bridge.  He  was  a  young  man,  lean, 
fair,  and  morose,  with  lanky  hair  and  a  shuffling  gait. 
As  we  left  the  miserable  little  wharf,  he  tossed  his  head 
contemptuously  at  the  shore.  'Been  living  there.?'  he 
asked.  I  said,  '  Yefs.'  '  Fine  lot  these  government  chaps 
— are  they  not.?'  he  went  on,  speaking  English  with 
great  precision  and  considerable  bitterness.  '  It  is  funny 
what  some  people  will  do  for  a  few  francs  a  month.  I 
wonder  what  becomes  of  that  kind  when  it  goes  up  coun- 
try.? '  I  said  to  him  I  expected  to  see  that  soon.  '  So-o-o  ! ' 
he  exclaimed.  He  shuffled  athwart,  keeping  one  eye 
ahead  vigilantly.     '  Don't  be  too    sure,'  he    continued, 

[  71  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

*  The  other  day  I  took  up  a  man  who  hanged  himself 
on  the  road.  He  was  a  Swede,  too.'  '  Hanged  himself ! 
Why,  in  God's  nsune?  '  I  cried.  He  kept  on  looking  out 
watchfully.  '  Who  knows  .^  The  sun  too  much  for  him, 
or  the  country  perhaps.' 

At  last  we  opened  a  reach.  A  rocky  cliff  appeared, 
mounds  of  turned-up  earth  by  the  shore,  houses  on  a 
hill,  others,  with  iron  roofg,  amongst  a  waste  of  excava- 
tions, or  hanging  to  the  declivity.  A  continuous  noise 
of  the  rapids  above  hovered  over  this  scene  of  inhabited 
devastation.  A  lot  of  people,  mostly  black  and  naked, 
moved  about  like  ants.  A  jetty  projected  into  the  river. 
A  blinding  sunhght  drowned  all  this  at  times  in  a  sudden 
recrudescence  of  glare.  '  There's  your  Company's  sta- 
tion,' said  the  Swede,  pointing  to  three  wooden  barrack- 
like structures  on  the  rocky  slope.  '  I  will  send  your 
things  up.    Four  boxes  did  you  sa}^.'^     So.  Farewell.' 

"  I  came  upon  a  boiler  w^allowing  in  the  grass,  then 
found  a  path  leading  up  the  hill.  It  turned  aside  for 
the  bowlders,  and  also  for  an  undersized  railway-truck 
lying  there  on  its  back  with  its  wheels  in  the  air.  One 
"was  off.  The  thing  looked  as  dead  as  the  carcass  of 
some  animal.  I  came  upon  more  pieces  of  decaying  ma- 
chinery, a  stack  of  rusty  rails.  To  the  left  a  clump  of 
trees  made  a  shady  spot,  where  dark  things  seemed  to 
stir  feebly.  I  blinked,  the  path  was  steep.  A  horn  tooted 
to  the  right,  and  I  saw  the  black  people  run.  A  heavy 
and  dull  detonation  shook  the  ground,  a  puff  of  smoke 
came  out  of  the  cliff,  and  that  was  all.  No  change  ap- 
peared on  the  face  of  the  rock.     They  were  building  a 

[72] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS. 

raihn  ay.     The  clifF  was  not  in  the  way  or  anything ;  but 
this  objectless  blasting  was  all  the  work  going  on. 

"  A  slight  clinking  behind  me  made  me  turn  my  head. 
Six  black  men  advanced  in  a  file,  toiling  up  the  path. 
They  walked  erect  and  slow,  balancing  small  baskets 
fn.ll  of  earth  on  their  heads,  and  the  clink  kept  time  with 
their  footsteps.  Black  rags  were  wound  round  their 
loins,  and  the  short  ends  behind  waggled  to  and  fro  like 
tails.  I  could  see  every  rib,  the  joints  of  their  limbs 
were  like  knots  in  a  rope;  each  had  an  iron  collar  on 
his  neck,  and  all  were  connected  together  with  a  chain 
whose  bights  swung  between  them,  rhythmically  clinking. 
Another  report  from  the  cliif  made  me  think  suddenly' 
of  that  ship  of  war  I  had  seen  firing  into  a  continent. 
It  was  the  same  kind  of  ominous  voice;  but  these  men 
could  by  no  stretch  of  imagination  be  called  enemies. 
They  were  called  criminals,  and  the  outraged  law,  like 
the  bursting  shells,  had  come  to  them,  an  insoluble  mys- 
tery from  the  sea.  All  their  meager  breasts  panted 
together,  the  violently  dilated  nostrils  quivered,  the  eyes 
stared  stonily  uphill.  They  passed  me  within  six  inches, 
without  a  glance,  with  that  complete,  deathlike  indif- 
ference of  unhappy  savages.  Behind  this  raw  matter 
one  of  the  reclaimed,  the  product  of  the  new  forces  at 
work,  strolled  despondently,  carrying  a  rifle  by  its 
middle.  He  had  a  uniform  jacket  with  one  button  off, 
and  seeing  a  white  man  on  the  path,  hoisted  his  weapon 
to  his  shoulder  with  alacrity.  This  was  simple  prudence, 
white  men  being  so  much  alike  at  a  distance  that  he  could 
not  tell  who  I  might  be.    He  was  speedily  reassured,  and 

[73  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

with  a  large,  white,  rascally  grin,  and  a  glance  at  his 
charge,  seemed  to  take  me  into  partnership  in  his  exalted 
trust.  After  all,  I  also  was  a  part  of  the  great  cause 
of  these  high  and  just  proceedings. 

"  Instead  of  going  up,  I  turned  and  descended  to  the 
left.  jMy  idea  was  to  let  that  chain-gang  get  out  of 
sight  before  I  climbed  the  hill.  You  know  I  am  not  par- 
ticularly tender ;  I've  had  to  strike  and  to  fend  off.  I've 
had  to  resist  and  to  attack  sometimes — that's  only  one 
way  of  resisting — without  counting  the  exact  cost,  ac- 
cording to  the  demands  of  such  sort  of  life  as  I  had  blun- 
dered into.  I've  seen  the  devil  of  violence,  and  the  devil 
of  greed,  and  the  devil  of  hot  desire;  but,  by  all  the 
stars !  these  were  strong,  lusty,  red-eyed  devils,  that 
swayed  and  drove  men — men,  I  tell  you.  But  as  I  stood 
on  this  hillside,  I  foresaw  that  in  the  blinding  sunshine 
of  that  land  I  would  become  acquainted  with  a  flabby, 
pretending,  weak-eyed  devil  of  a  rapacious  and  pitiless 
folly.  How  insidious  he  could  be,  too,  I  was  only  to 
find  out  several  months  later  and  a  thousand  miles 
farther.  For  a  moment  I  stood  appalled,  as  though  by 
a  warning.  Finally  I  descended  the  hill,  obliquely,  to- 
wards the  trees  I  had  seen. 

"  I  avoided  a  vast  artificial  hole  somebody  had  been 
digging  on  the  slope,  the  purpose  of  which  I  found  it 
impossible  to  divine.  It  wasn't  a  quarry  or  a  sandpit, 
anyhow.  It  was  just  a  hole.  It  might  have  been  con- 
nected with  the  philanthropic  desire  of  giving  the  crim- 
inals something  to  do.  I  don't  know.  Then  I  nearly 
fell  into  a  very  narrow  ravine,  almost  no  more  than  a 

[  74  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

scar  in  the  hillside.  I  discovered  that  a  lot  of  imported 
drainage-pipes  for  the  settlement  had  been  tumbled  in 
there.  There  wasn't  one  that  was  not  broken.  It  was 
a  wanton  smash-up.  f  At  last  I  got  under  the  trees.  My 
purpose  was  to  stroll  into  the  shade  for  a  moment;  but 
no  sooner  within  than  it  seemed  to  me  I  had  stepped 
into  a  gloomy  circle  of  some  Inferno.  The  rapids  were 
near,  and  an  uninterrupted,  uniform,  headlong,  rushing 
noise  filled  the  mournful  stillness  of  the  grove,  where  not 
a  breath  stirred,  not  a  leaf  moved,  with  a  mysterious 
sound — as  though  the  tearing  pace  of  the  launched  earth 
had  suddenly  become  audible. 

"  Black  shapes  crouched,  lay,  sat  between  the  trees, 
leaning  against  the  trunks,  clinging  to  the  earth,  half 
coming  out,  half  effaced  within  the  dim  light,  in  all  the 
attitudes  of  pain,  abandonment,  and  despair.  Another 
mine  on  the  cliff  went  off,  followed  by  a  slight  shudder 
of  the  soil  under  my  feet.  The  work  was  going  on.  The 
w  ork !  And  this  was  the  place  where  some  of  the  helpers 
had  withdrawn  to  die. 

"  They  were  dying  slowly — it  was  very  clear.  They 
were  not  enemies,  they  were  not  criminals,  they  were 
nothing  earthly  now, — nothing  but  black  shadows  of 
disease  and  starvation,  lying  confusedly  in  the  greenish 
gloom.  Brought  from  all  the  recesses  of  the  coast  in  all 
the  legality  of  time  contracts,  lost  in  uncongenial  sur- 
roundings, fed  on  unfamiliar  food,  they  sickened,  be- 
came inefficient,  and  were  then  allowed  to  crawl  away  and 
rest.  These  moribund  shapes  were  free  as  air — and  nearly 
as  thin.     I  began  to  distinguish  the  gleam  of  the  eyes 

[   75   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

under  the  trees.  Then,  glancing  down,  I  saw  a  face 
near  my  hand.  The  black  bones  reclined  at  full  length 
with  one  shoulder  against  the  tree,  and  slowly  the  eye- 
lids rose  and  the  sunken  eyes  looked  up  at  me,  enormous 
and  vacant,  a  kind  of  blind,  white  flicker  in  the  depths 
of  the  orbs,  which  died  out  slowly.  The  man  seemed 
young — almost  a  boy — but  you  know  with  them  it's  hard 
to  tell.  I  found  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  offer  him  one 
of  my  good  Swede's  ship's  biscuits  I  had  in  my  pocket. 
The  fingers  closed  slowly  on  it  and  held — there  was  no 
other  movement  and  no  other  glance.  He  had  tied  a  bit 
of  white  worsted  round  his  neck — Why  ?  Where  did  he 
get  it.?  Was  it  a  badge — an  ornament — a  charm — a 
propitiatory  act.^^  Was  there  any  idea  at  all  connected 
with  it.?  It  looked  startling  round  his  black  neck,  this 
bit  of  white  thread  from  beyond  the  seas. 

"  Near  the  same  tree  two  more  bundles  of  acute  angles 
sat  with  their  legs  drawn  up.  One,  with  his  chin 
propped  on  his  knees,  stared  at  nothing,  in  an  intoler- 
able and  appalling  manner:  his  brother  phantom  rested 
its  forehead,  as  if  overcome  with  a  great  weariness ;  and 
all  about  others  were  scattered  in  every  pose  of  contorted 
collapse,  as  in  some  picture  of  a  massacre  or  a  pestilence. 
While  I  stood  horror-struck,  one  of  these  creatures  rose 
to  his  hands  and  knees,  and  went  off  on  all-fours  towards 
the  river  to  drink.  He  lapped  out  of  his  hand,  then  sat 
up  in  the  sunlight,  crossing  his  shins  in  front  of  him, 
and  after  a  time  let  his  woolly  head  fall  on  his  breast- 
bone. 

"  I  didn't  want  any  more  loitering  in  the  shade,  and 

[  ^6  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

I  made  haste  towards  the  station.  When  near  the  build- 
ings I  met  a  white  man,  in  such  an  unexpected  elegance 
of  get-up  that  in  the  first  moment  I  took  him  for  a  sort 
of  ^Tsion.  ,  I  saw  a  high  starched  collar,  white  cuffs,  a 
light  alpaca  jacket,  snowy  trousers,  a  clean  necktie,  and 
varnished  boots.  No  hat.  Hair  parted,  brushed,  oiled, 
under  a  green-lined  parasol  held  in  a  big  white  hand. 
He  was  almazing,  and  had  a  penholder  behind  his  ear. 

"  I  shook  hands  with  this  miracle,  and  I  learned  he  was 
the  Company's  chief  accountant,  and  that  all  the  book- 
keeping was  done  at  this  station.  He  had  come  out  for 
a  moment,  he  said,  '  to  get  a  breath  of  fresh  air.'  The 
expression  sounded  wonderfully  odd,  with  its  suggestion 
of  sedentary  desk-life.  I  wouldn't  have  mentioned  the 
fellow  to  you  at  all,  only  it  was  from  his  lips  that  I 
first  heard  the  name  of  the  man  who  is  so  indissolubly 
connected  with  the  memories  of  that  time.  Moreover,  I 
respected  the  fellow.  Yes;  I  respected  his  collars,  his 
vast  cuffs,  his  brushed  hair.  His  appearance  was  cer- 
tainly that  of  a  hairdresser's  dummy;  but  in  the  great 
demoralization  of  the  land  he  kept  up  his  appearance. 
That's  backbone.  His  starched  collars  and  got-up  shirt- 
fronts  were  achievements  of  character.  He  had  been  out 
nearly  three  years;  and,  later  on,  I  could  not  help  ask- 
ing him  how  he  managed  to  sport  such  linen.  He  had 
just  the  faintest  blush,  and  said  modestly,  '  I've  been 
teaching  one  of  the  native  women  about  the  station.  It 
was  diflBcult.  She  had  a  distaste  for  the  work.'  Thus 
this  man  had  verily  accomphshed  something.  And  he 
was  devoted  to  his  books,  which  were  in  apple-pie  order. 

[   77   ] 


HEAKT    OF    DARKNESS 

"  Everything  else  in  the  station  was  in  a  muddle, — • 
heads,  things,  buildings.  Strings  of  dusty  niggers  with 
splay  feet  arrived  and  departed;  a  stream  of  manu- 
factured goods,  rubbishy  cottons,  beads,  and  brass-wire 
set  into  the  depths  of  darkness,  and  in  return  came  a 
precious  trickle  of  ivory. 

"  I  had  to  v/ait  in  the  station  for  ten  days — an  eternity. 
I  lived  in  a  hut  in  the  yard,  but  to  be  out  of  the  chaos 
I  would  sometimes  get  into  the  accountant's  office.  It 
was  built  of  horizontal  planks,  and  so  badl}^  put  together 
that,  as  he  bent  over  his  high  desk,  he  was  barred  from 
neck  to  heels  with  narrow  strips  of  sunlight.  There  was 
no  need  to  open  the  big  shutter  to  see.  It  was  hot 
there  too;  big  flies  buzzed  fiendishly,  and  did  not  sting, 
but  stabbed.  I  sat  generally  on  the  floor,  while,  of 
faultless  appearance  (and  even  slightly  scented),  perch- 
ing on  a  high  stool,  he  wrote,  he  wrote.  Sometimes  he 
stood  up  for  exercise.  When  a  truckle-bed  with  a  sick 
man  (some  invalided  agent  from  up-country)  was  put  in 
there,  he  exhibited  a  gentle  anno3^ance.  '  The  groans  of 
this  sick  person,'  he  said,  '  distract  my  attention.  And 
without  that  it  is  extremely  difficult  to  guard  against 
clerical  errors  in  this  climate.' 

"  One  day  he  remarked,  without  lifting  his  head,  '  In 
the  interior  you  will  no  doubt  meet  Mr.  Kurtz.'  On  my 
asking  who  Mr.  Kurtz  was,  he  said  he  was  a  first-class 
agent ;  and  seeing  my  disappointment  at  this  informa- 
tion, he  added  slowly,  laying  down  his  pen,  '  He  is  a  very 
remarkable  person.'  Further  questions  elicited  from  him 
that  Mr.  Kurtz  was  at  present  in  charge  of  a  trading 

[  78  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

post,  a  very  important  one,  in  the  true  ivory-country, 
at  '  the  very  bottom  of  there.  Sends  in  as  much  ivory 
as  all  the  others  put  together.  .  .  .'  He  began  to 
write  again.  The  sick  man  was  too  ill  to  groan.  The 
flies  buzzed  in  a  great  peace. 

"  Suddenly  there  was  a  growing  murmur  of  voices  and 
a  great  tramping  of  feet.  A  caravan  had  come  in.  A 
violent  babble  of  uncouth  sounds  burst  out  on  the  other 
side  of  the  planks.  All  the  carriers  were  speaking  to- 
gether, and  in  the  midst  of  the  uproar  the  lamentable 
voice  of  the  chief  agent  was  heard  '  giving  it  up  '  tear- 
fully for  the  twentieth  time  that  day.  ...  He  rose 
slowly.  '  What  a  frightful  row,'  he  said.  He  crossed 
the  room  gently  to  look  at  the  sick  man,  and  returning, 
said  to  me,  '  He  does  not  hear.'  '  What !  Dead?  '  I 
asked,  startled.  '  No,  not  yet,'  he  answered,  with  great 
composure.  Then,  alluding  with  a  toss  of  the  head  to 
the  tumult  in  the  station-yard,  '  When  one  has  got  to 
make  correct  entries,  one  comes  to  hate  those  savages — 
hate  them  to  the  death.'  He  remained  thoughtful  for  a 
moment.  '  When  you  see  Mr.  Kurtz,'  he  went  on,  '  tell 
him  from  me  that  everything  here  ' — he  glanced  at  the 
desk — '  is  very  satisfactory.  I  don't  like  to  write  to  him 
— with  those  messengers  of  ours  you  never  know  who 
may  get  hold  of  your  letter — at  that  Central  Station.' 
He  stared  at  me  for  a  moment  v/ith  his  mild,  bulging 
eyes.  '  Ch,  he  will  go  far,  very  far,'  he  began  again. 
'  He  will  be  a  somebody  in  the  Administration  before 
long.  They,  above — the  Council  in  Europe,  you  know 
— mean  him  to  be.' 

[79  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

"  He  turned  to  his  work.  The  noise  outside  had  ceased, 
and  presently  in  going  out  I  stopped  at  the  door.  In 
the  steady  buzz  of  flies  the  homeward-bound  agent  was 
Wing  flushed  and  insensible;  the  other,  bent  over  his 
books,  was  making  correct  entries  of  perfectly  correct 
transactions;  and  fifty  feet  below  the  doorstep  I  could 
see  the  still  tree-tops  of  the  grove  of  death. 

"  Next  day  I  left  that  station  at  last,  with  a  caravan  ^ 
of  sixty  men,  for  a  two-hundred-mile  tramp. 

"  No  use  telling  you  much  about  that.  Paths,  paths, 
everywhere ;  a  stamped-in  network  of  paths  spreading 
over  the  empty  land,  through  long  grass,  through  burnt 
grass,  through  thickets,  down  and  up  cliilly  ravines,  up 
and  down  stony  hills  ablaze  with  heat ;  and  a  solitude^ 
a  solitude,  nobody,  not  a  hut.  The  population  had 
cleared  out  a  long  time  ago.  Well,  if  a  lot  of  mysterious 
niggers  armed  with  all  kinds  of  fearful  weapons  sud- 
denly took  to  traveling  on  the  road  between  Deal  and 
Gravcscnd,  catching  the  yokels  right  and  left  to  carry 
heavy  loads  for  them,  I  fancy  every  farm  and  cottage 
thereabouts  would  get  empty  very  soon.  Only  here  the 
dwellings  were  gone  too.  Still  I  passed  through  several 
abandoned  villages.  There's  something  pathetically 
Ciiildlsh  in  the  ruins  of  grass  walls.  Day  after  day,  with 
the  stamp  and  shuffle  of  sixty  pair  of  bare  feet  behind 
me,  each  pair  under  a  60-lb.  load.  Camp,  cook,  sleep, 
strike  camp,  march.  Now  and  then  a  car^-ier  dead  in 
harness,  at  rest  in  the  long  grass  near  the  path,  with 
an  empty  water-gourd  and  his  long  stafl^  ^ji^^g  '  J  ^^^i^ 
side.     A  great  silence  around  and  r.bove.     Perhaps  on 

[  80  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

some  quiet  night  the  tremor  of  far-off  drums,  sinking, 
swelling,  a  tremor  vast,  faint ;  a  sound  weird,  appealing, 
suggestive,  and  wild — and  perhaps  with  as  profound  a 
meaning  as  the  sound  of  bells  in  a  Christian  country. 
Once  a  white  man  in  an  unbuttoned  uniform,  camping 
on  the  path  v/ith  an  armed  escort  of  lank  Zanzibaris, 
very  hospitable  and  festive — not  to  say  drunk.  Was 
looking  after  the  upkeep  of  the  road,  he  declared.  Can't 
say  I  saw  any  road  or  any  upkeep,  unless  the  body  of  a 
middle-aged  negro,  with  a  bullet-hole  in  the  forehead, 
upon  which  I  absolutely  stum.bled  three  miles  farther  on, 
ma}^  be  considered  as  a  permanent  improvement.  I  had 
a  white  companion  too,  not  a  bad  chap,  but  rather  too 
fleshy  and  with  the  exasperating  habit  of  fainting  on 
the  hot  hillsides,  miles  awa}^  from  the  least  bit  of  shade 
and  water.  Annoying,  3'Ou  know,  to  hold  your  own  coat 
like  a  parasol  over  a  man's  head  while  he  is  coming-to. 
I  couldn't  help  asking  him  once  what  he  meant  by  coming 
there  at  all.  '  To  make  money,  of  course.  What  do 
you  think  .'^  '  he  said,  scornfully.  Then  he  got  fever,  and 
had  to  be  carried  in  a  hamnnock  slung  under  a  pole.  As 
he  vreighed  sixteen  stone  I  had  no  end  of  rows  with  the 
carriers.  They  jibbed,  ran  awa^^,  sneaked  off  w^th  their 
loads  in  the  night — quite  a  mutiny.  So,  one  evening, 
I  made  a  speech  in  English  with  gestures,  not  one  of 
which  was  lost  to  the  sixty  pairs  of  eyes  before  me,  and 
the  next  morning  I  started  the  hammock  off  in  front  all 
right.  An  hour  afterwards  I  came  upon  the  whole  con- 
cern wrecked  in  a  bush- — man,  hammock,  groans,  blankets, 
horrors.     The  heavy  pole  had  skinned  his  poor  nose.     He 

[  81   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

was  very  anxious  for  me  to  kill  somebody,  but  there 
wasn't  tiie  shadow  of  a  carrier  near.  I  remembered  the 
old  doctor, — '  It  would  be  interesting  for  science  to 
watch  the  mental  changes  of  individuals,  en  the  spot.' 
[  felt  I  was  becoming  scientifically  interesting.  How- 
ever, all  that  is  to  no  purpose.  On  the  fifteenth  day  I 
cam.e  in  sight  of  the  big  river  again,  and  hobbled  into 
the  Central  Station.  It  was  on  a  back  water  surrounded 
by  scrub  and  forest,  with  a  pretty  border  of  smelly  mud 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  three  others  inclosed  by  a  crazy 
fence  of  rushes.  A  neglected  gap  was  all  the  gate  it 
had,  and  the  first  glance  at  the  place  was  enough  to  let 
*/  you  see  the  flabby  devil  was  running  that  show.  White 
men  with  long  staves  in  their  hands  appeared  languidly 
from  amongst  the  buildings,  strolHng  up  to  take  a  look 
at  me,  and  then  retired  out  of  sight  somewhere.  One 
of  them,  a  stout,  excitable  chap  with  black  mustaches, 
informed  me  with  great  volubility  and  many  digressions, 
as  soon  as  I  told  him  who  I  was,  that  my  steamer  was  at 
the  bottom  of  the  river.  I  was  thunderstruck.  What, 
how,  why?  Oh,  it  was  '  all  right.'  The  '  manager  him- 
self '  was  there.  All  quite  correct.  '  Everybody  had 
behaved  splendidly  !  splendidly  ! ' — '  you  must,'  he  said 
in  agitation,  '  go  and  see  the  general  manager  at  once. 
He  is  waiting ! ' 

"  I  did  not  see  the  real  significance  of  that  wreck  at 
once.  I  fancy  I  see  it  now,  but  I  am  not  sure — not  at 
all.  Certainly  the  affair  was  too  stupid — when  I  think 
of  it — to  be  altogether  natural.  Still.  .  .  .  But  at  tlie 
moment  it  presented  itself  simply  as  a  confounded  nui- 

[  82  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

sance.    The  steamer  was  sunk.     They  had  started  two 
days  before  in  a  sudden  hurry  up  the  river  v/ith  the 
manager  on  board,  in  charge  of  some  volunteer  skipper, 
and  before  they  had  been  out  three  hours  they  tore  the 
bottom  out  of  her  on  stones,  and  she  sank  near  the  south 
bank.     I  asked  myself  what  I  was  to  do  there,  novr  my 
boat  was  lost.     As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had  plenty  to  do 
in  fishing  my  command  out  of  the  river.     I  had  to  set 
about  it  the  very  next  day.     That,  and  the  repairs  when 
I  brought  the  pieces  to  the  station,  took  some  months. 
"  My  first  interview  with  the  manager  was  curious.     He 
did  not  ask  me  to  sit  down  after  my  twenty-mile  walk 
that  morning.     He  was  commonplace  in  complexion,  in 
feature,  in  m.anners,  and  in  voice.     He  was  of  middle 
size  and  of  ordinary  build.     His  eyes,  of  the  usual  blue, 
were  perhaps  remarkably  cold,  and  he  certainly  could 
make  his  glance  fall  on  one  as  trenchant  and  heavy  as 
an  ax.     But  even  at  these  times  the  rest  of  his  person 
seemed  to  disclaim  the  intention.     Otherv/ise  there  was 
only  an  indefinable,  faint  expression  of  his  lips,  some- 
thing stealthy — a  smile — not  a  smile — I  remember  it,  but 
I  can't  explain.     It  was  unconscious,    this    smile    was, 
though  just  after  he  had  said  something  it  got  intensified 
for  an  instant.     It  came  at  the  end  of  his  speeches  like 
a  seal  applied  on  the  words  to  make  the  meaning  of  the 
comm.onest   phrase  appear   absolutely   inscrutable.      He 
was  a  common  trader,  from  his  youth  up  employed  in 
these  parts — nothing  more.     He  was  obeyed,  yet  he  in- 
spired neither  love  nor  fear,  nor  even  respect.     He  in- 
spired uneasiness.     That  was  it!     Uneasiness.     Not  a 

[  83  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

definite  mistrust — just  uneasiness — nothing  more.  You 
have  no  idea  how  effective  such  a  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  fac- 
ulty can  be.  He  had  no  genius  for  organizing,  for 
initiative,  or  for  order  even.  That  was  evident  in  such 
tilings  as  the  deplorable  state  of  the  station.  He  had 
no  learning,  and  no  intelligence.  His  position  had  come 
to  him — why?  Perhaps  because  he  was  never  ill  .  .  . 
He  had  served  three  term.s  of  three  years  out  there  .  .  . 
Because  triumphant  health  in  the  general  rout  of  con- 
stitutions is  a  kind  of  power  in  itself.  When  he  went 
home  on  leave  he  rioted  on  a  large  scale — pompously. 
Jack  ashore — with  a  difference — in  externals  only.  This 
one  could  gather  from  his  casual  talk.  He  originated 
nothing,  he  could  keep  the  routine  going — that's  all. 
But  he  was  great.  He  was  great  by  this  little  thing  tliat 
it  was  impossible  to  tell  what  could  control  such  a  man. 
He  never  gave  that  secret  away.  Perhaps  there  was 
nothing  within  him.  Such  a  suspicion  made  one  pause 
— for  out  there  there  were  no  external  checks.  Once 
when  various  tropical  diseases  had  laid  low  almiost  every 
'  agent '  in  the  station,  he  was  heard  to  say,  '  ?\Ien  who 
come  out  here  should  have  no  entrails.'  He  sealed  the 
utterance  with  that  smile  of  his,  as  though  it  had  been 
a  door  opening  into  a  darkness  he  had  in  his  keeping. 
You  fancied  you  had  seen  things — but  the  seal  was  on. 
When  annoyed  at  meal-tim^es  by  the  constant  quarrels 
of  the  white  men  about  precedence,  he  ordered  an  im- 
mense round  table  to  be  made,  for  which  a  special  house 
had  to  be  built.  This  was  the  station's  mess-room.  Where 
he  sat  was  the  first  place — the  rest  were  nowhere.     One 

[  84  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

felt  this  to  be  his  unalterable  conviction.  He  was  neither 
civil  nor  uncivil.  He  was  quiet.  He  allowed  his  '  boy 
^an  overfed  young  negro  from  the  coast — to  treat  the 
white  men,  under  his  very  eyes,  with  provoking  insolence. 
"  He  began  to  speak  as  soon  as  he  saw  me.  I  had 
been  very  long  on  the  road.  He  could  not  wait.  Had 
to  start  without  me.  The  up-river  stations  had  to  be 
relieved.  There  had  been  so  manj^  delays  already  that 
he  did  not  know  who  was  dead  and  who  was  alive,  and 
how  they  got  on — and  so  on,  and  so  on.  He  paid  no 
attention  to  my  explanations,  and,  playing  with  a  stick 
of  sealing-wax,  repeated  several  times  that  the  situation 
was  '  very  grave,  very  grave.'  There  were  rumors  that 
a  very  important  station  was  in  jeopardy,  and  its  chief, 
Mr.  Kurtz,  was  ill.  Hoped  it  was  not  true.  Mr.  Kurtz 
was  ...  I  felt  weary  and  irritable.  Hang  Kurtz,  I 
thought.  I  interrupted  him  by  saying  I  had  heard  of 
Mr.  Kurtz  on  the  coast.  '  Ah !  So  they  talk  of  him 
down  there,'  he  murmured  to  himself.  Then  he  began 
again,  assuring  me  Mr.  Kurtz  was  the  best  agent  he 
had,  an  exceptional  man,  of  the  greatest  importance  to 
the  Company ;  therefore  I  could  understand  his  anxiety. 
He  was,  he  said,  '  very,  very  uneasy.'  Certainly  he 
fidgeted  on  his  chair  a  good  deal,  exclaimed,  '  Ah,  Mr, 
Kurtz ! '  broke  the  stick  of  sealing-wax  and  seemed  dumb- 
founded by  the  accident.  Next  thing  he  wanted  to  know 
'  how  long  it  would  take  to  '  .  .  .1  interrupted  him 
again.  Being  hungry,  you  know,  and  kept  on  my  feet 
too,  I  vras  getting  savage.  '  How  could  I  tell,'  I  said. 
*  I  hadn't   even  seen  the  wreck  yet — some  months,  no 

[  85  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

doubt.*  All  this  talk  seemed  to  me  so  futile.  '  Some 
months,'  he  said.  '  Well,  let  us  say  three  months  before 
we  can  make  a  start.  Yes.  That  ought  to  do  the  affair.' 
I  flung  out  of  his  hut  {h e  IhTtl  aiKftlcTrr4B-^ar-eJ:a'3rlTnt 
with  a  sort  ofnrGraTida)  muttering  to  myself  my  opinion 
of  him.  He  was  a  chattering  idiot.  Afterwards  I  took 
it  back  when  it  was  borne  in  upon  me  startlingly  with 
what  extreme  nicetj^  he  had  estimated  the  time  requisite 
for  the  '  affair.' 

"  I  went  to  work  the  next  day,  turning,  so  to  speak, 
my  back  on  that  station.  In  that  way  only  it  seemed 
to  me  I  could  keep  my  hold  on  the  redeeming  facts  of 
life.  Still,  one  must  look  about  sometimes ;  and  then  I 
saw  this  station,  these  men  strolling  aimlessly  about  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  yard.  I  asked  myself  som.etimes  v/hat 
it  all  meant.  They  wandered  here  and  there  with  their 
absurd  long  staves  in  their  hands,  like  a  lot  of  faithless 
pilgrims  bewitched  inside  a  rotten  fence.  The  v.crd 
'  ivory  '  rang  in  the  air,  was  whispered,  was  sighed.  You 
Vv'ould  think  they  were  praying  to  it.  A  taint  of  imbecile 
rapacity  blew  through  it  all,  like  a  vrhiff  from  seme 
corpse.  By  Jove !  I've  never  seen  anytliing  so  unreal 
in  my  life.  And  outside,  the  silent  wilderness  surround- 
ing this  cleared  speck  on  the  earth  struck  me  as  som.e- 
thing  great  and  invincible,  like  evil  or  truth,  waiting 
patiently  for  the  passing  away  of  this  fantastic  in- 
vasion. 

"  Oh,  these  months !  Well,  never  mind.  Various  things 
happened.  One  evening  a  grass  shed  full  of  calico,  cotton 
prints,  beads,  and  I  don't  know  v/hat  else,  burst  into  a 

[  86  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

blaze  so  suddenly  that  you  would  have  thought  the  earth 
had  opened  to  let  an  avenging  fire  consume  ail  that  trash. 
I  v/as  smoking  my  pipe  quietly  by  my  dismantled  steamer, 
and  saw  them  all  cutting  capers  in  the  light,  with  their 
arms  lifted  high,  when  the  stout  man  with  mustaches 
came  tearing  dov.n  to  the  river,  a  tin  pail  in  his  hand, 
assured  me  that  everybody  was  *  behaving  splendidl}^, 
splendidl}^,'  dipped  about  a  quart  of  water  and  tore  back 
again.  I  noticed  there  was  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  his 
pail.  *^ 

"  I  strolled  up.  There  was  no  hurry.  You  see  the 
thing  had  gone  off  like  a  box  of  matches.  It  had  been 
hopeless  from  the  very  first.  The  flame  had  leaped  high, 
driven  everybody  back,  lighted  up  everything — and  col- 
lapsed. The  shed  was  already  a  heap  of  embers  glowing 
fiercely.  A  nigger  was  being  beaten  near  by.  They 
said  he  had  caused  the  fire  in  some  way ;  be  that  as  it 
may,  he  was  screeching  most  horribly.  I  saw  him,  later 
on,  for  several  days,  sitting  in  a  bit  of  shade  locking 
very  sick  and  trying  to  recover  himself:  afterwards  he 
arose  and  went  out — and  the  wilderness  without  a  sound 
took  him  into  its  bo^om  again.  As  I  approached  tlie 
glow  from  the  dark  I  found  myself  at  the  back  of  two 
men,  talking.  I  heard  the  name  of  Kurtz  pronounced, 
then  the  words,  '  take  advantage  of  this  unfortunate  ac- 
cident.' One  of  the  m.en  was  the  manager.  I  v,icl:cd 
him  a  good  evening.  '  Did  3/ ou  ever  see  anything  lilie 
it — eh.P  it  is  incredible,'  he  said,  and  vralked  OiT.  Tiie 
other  man  remained.  He  v/as  a  first-class  agent,  young, 
gentlemanly,  a  bit  reserved,  with  a  forked  little  beard 

[  87  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

and  a  hooked  nose.  He  was  stand-offish  with  the  other 
agents,  and  they  on  their  side  said  he  was  the  manager's 
spy  upon  them.  As  to  me,  I  had  hardly  ever  spoken  to 
him  before.  We  got  into  talk,  and  by-and-by  we  strolled 
away  from  the  hissing  ruins.  Then  he  asked  me  to  his 
room,  which  was  in  the  main  building  of  the  station. 
He  struck  a  match,  and  I  perceived  that  this  young 
aristocrat  had  not  only  a  silver-mounted  dressing-case 
but  also  a  whole  candle  all  to  himself.  Just  at  that  time 
the  manager  was  the  only  man  supposed  to  have  any 
right  to  candies.  Native  miats  covered  the  clay  walls; 
a  collection  of  spears,  assegais,  shields,  knives  was  hung 
up  in  trophies.  The  business  intrusted  to  this  fellow 
was  the  making  of  bricks — so  I  had  been  informed;  but 
there  wasn't  a  fragment  of  a  brick  anywhere  in  the  sta- 
tion, and  he  had  been  there  more  than  a  year — waiting. 
It  seems  he  could  not  make  bricks  without  something,  I 
don't  know  what — straw  maybe.  Anyways,  it  could  not 
be  found  there,  and  as  it  was  not  likely  to  be  sent  from 
Europe,  it  did  not  appear  clear  to  me  what  he  was  wait- 
ing for.  An  act  of  special  creation  perhaps.  However, 
they  were  all  waiting — all  the  sixteen  or  twenty  pilgrims 
of  them- — for  something;  and  upon  my  word  it  did  not 
seem  an  uncongenial  occupation,  from  the  w^ay  they  took 
it,  though  the  only  thing  that  ever  came  to  them  was 
disease — as  far  as  I  could  see.  They  beguiled  the  time 
by  backbiting  and  intriguing  against  each  other  in  a 
foolish  kind  of  way.  There  was  an  air  of  plotting  about 
that  station,  but  nothing  came  of  it,  of  course.  It  was 
as  unrenl  as  everything  else — as  the  philanthropic  pre- 

[  SS   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

tense  of  the  whole  concern,  as  their  talk,  as  their  gov- 
ernment, as  their  show  of  work.  The  only  real  feeling 
was  a  desire  to  get  appointed  to  a  trading-post  where 
ivory  was  to  be  had,  so  that  they  could  earn  percentages. 
They  intrigued  and  slandered  and  hated  each  other  only 
on  that  account, — but  as  to  effectually  lifting  a  little 
finger — oh,  no.  By  heavens !  there  is  something  after 
all  in  the  world  allowing  one  man  to  steal  a  horse  while 
another  must  not  look  at  a  halter.  Steal  a  horse  straight 
out.  Very  well.  He  has  done  it.  Perhaps  he  can  ride. 
But  there  is  a  way  of  looking  at  a  halter  that  would 
provoke  the  most  charitable  of  saints  into  a  kick. 

"  I  had  no  idea  why  he  wanted  to  be  sociable,  but  as 
we  chatted  in  there  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  the  fel- 
low was  trying  to  get  at  something — in  fact,  pumping 
me.  He  alluded  constantly  to  Europe,  to  the  people  I 
was  supposed  to  know  there — putting  leading  questions 
as  to  my  acquaintances  in  the  sepulchral  city,  and  so  on. 
His  little  eyes  glittered  like  mica  discs — with  curiosity, 
— though  he  tried  to  keep  up  a  bit  of  superciliousness. 
At  first  I  Avas  astonished,  but  very  soon  I  became  awfully 
curious  to  see  what  he  would  find  out  from  me.  I  couldn't 
possibly  imagine  what  I  had  in  me  to  make  it  worth 
his  v>hile.  It  was  very  pretty  to  see  how  he  baffled  him- 
self, for  in  truth  my  body  was  full  of  chills,  and  my 
head  had  nothing  in  it  but  that  wretched  steamboat  busi- 
ness. It  was  evident  he  took  me  for  a  perfectly  shame- 
less prevaricator.  At  last  he  got  angry,  and,  to  conceal 
a  movement  of  furious  annoyance,  he  yawned.  I  rose. 
Then  I  noticed  a  small  sketch  in  oils,  on  a  panel,  repr^ 

[  89  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

senting  a  woman,  draped  and  blindfolded,  carrying  a 
lighted  torch.  The  background  was  somber — almost 
black.  The  movement  of  the  woman  was  stately,  and 
the  effect  of  the  torchlight  on  the  face  was  sinister. 

"  It  arrested  me,  and  he  stood  by  civilly,  holding  an  empty 
half -pint  champagne  bottle  (medical  comforts)  with  the 
candle  stuck  in  it.  To  my  question  he  said  My.  Kurtz 
had  painted  this — in  this  very  station  more  than  a  year 
ago — while  waiting  for  means  to  go  to  his  trading- post. 
*  Tell  me,  pray,'  said  I,  '  who  is  this  Mr.  Kurtz  ?  ' 

"  '  The  chief  of  the  Inner  Station,'  he  answered  in  a 
short  tone,  looking  away.  '  Mxich  obliged,'  I  said,  laugh- 
ing. '  And  you  are  the  brickmaker  of  the  Central  Sta- 
tion. Everyone  knows  that.'  He  was  silent  for  a  while. 
'  He  is  a  prodig}^,'  he  said  at  last.  '  He  is  an  emissary  of 
pity,  and  science,  and  progress,  and  devil  knows  what 
else.  We  want,'  he  began  to  declaim  suddenly,  '  for 
the  guidance  of  the  cause  intrusted  to  us  by  Europe,  so 
to  speak,  higher  intelligence,  wide  sj^mpathies,  a  single- 
ness of  purpose.'  '  Who  says  that.?  '  I  asked.  '  Lots  of 
them,'  he  replied.  'Some  even  write  that;  and  so  he 
comes  here,  a  special  being,  as  you  ought  to  know.'  '  Why 
ought  I  to  know.?  '  I  interrupted,  really  surprised.  He 
paid  no  attention.  '  Yes.  To-day  he  is  chief  of  the 
best  station,  next  year  he  will  be  assistant-manager,  two 
years  more  and  .  .  .  but  I  dare  say  you  knov/  what  he 
will  be  in  two  years'  time.  You  are  of  the  new  gang — 
the  gang  of  virtue.  The  same  people  who  sent  him 
specially  also  recommended  you.  Oh,  don't  say  no.  I've 
my  own  eyes  to  trust.'     Light  dawned  upon  me.     My 

[  »0  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

dear  aunt's  influential  acquaintances  were  producing  an 
unexpected  effect  upon  that  young  man,  I  nearly  burst 
into  a  laugh.  '  Do  j^ou  read  the  Company's  confidential 
correspondence?  '  I  agiked.  He  hadn't  a  word  to  say.  it 
V  as  great  fun.    '  When  Mr.  Kurtz,'  I  continued  severely- 

*  is  General  Manager,  you  vron't  have  the  opportunity/.' 
"  He  blew  the  candle  out  suddenly,  and  we  went  out- 
side. The  moon  had  risen.  Black  figures  strolled  about 
listlessly,  pouring  water  on  the  glow,  whence  proceeded 
a  sound  of  hissing ;  steam  ascended  in  the  moonlight,  the 
beaten  nigger  groaned  somewhere.  '  What  a  row  the 
brute  makes ! '  said  the  indefatigable  m.an  with  the  mus- 
taches, appearing  near  us.  '  Serve  him  right.  Trans- 
gression— punishment — bang!  Pitiless,  pitiless.  That's 
the  only  v^ay.  This  will  prevent  all  conflagrations  for 
the  future.  I  was  just  telling  the  manager  .  .  .'  He 
noticed  my  companion,  and  became  crestfallen  all  at  once. 

*  Not  in  bed  yet,'  he  said,  with  a  kind  of  servile  hearti- 
ness ;  '  it's  so  natural.  Ha !  Danger-agitation.'  He 
vanished.  I  went  on  to  the  river-side,  and  the  other  fol- 
lowed me.  I  heard  a  scathing  murmur  at  my  ear,  '  Heap 
of  muffs — go  to.'  The  pilgrims  could  be  seen  in  knots 
gesticulating,  discussing.  Several  had  still  their  staves 
in  their  hands.  I  verily  believe  they  took  these  sticks  to 
bed  Vi'ith  them.  Beyond  the  fence  the  forest  stood  up 
spectrally  in  the  moonligiit,  and  through  the  dim  stir^ 
through  the  faint  sounds  of  that  lamentable  courtyard, 
the  silence  of  the  land  went  home  to  one's  very  heart, — 

"its  mystery,  its  greatness,  the  amazing  reality  of  its  con- 
cealed life.     The  hurt  nigger  moaned  feebly  somewhere 

[  91  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

near  by,  and  then  fetched  a  deep  sigh  that  made  me 
mend  my  pace  away  from  there.  I  felt  a  hand  intro- 
ducing itself  under  ni}^  arm.  '  My  dear  sir,'  said  the 
fellow,  '  I  don't  want  to  be  misunderstood,  and  especially 
by  you,  who  will  see  Mr.  Kurtz  long  before  I  can  liave 
ihcd  pleasure.  I  wouldn't  like  him  to  get  a  false  idea 
of  my  disposition.    .    .     . ' 

•"  I  let  him  run  on,  this  papier-mache  Mephistopheles, 
:ind  it  seemed  to  me  that  if  I  tried  I  could  poke  my  fore- 
finger through  him,  and  would  find  nothing  inside  but 
a  little  loose  dirt,  maybe.  He,  don't  you  see,  had  been 
^jlanning  to  be  assistant-manager  b3'-and-b3'  under  the 
present  man,  and  I  could  see  that  the  coming  of  that 
Kurtz  had  upset  them  both  not  a  little.  He  talked  pre- 
cipitately, and  I  did  not  try  to  stop  him.  I  had  my 
slioulders  against  the  wreck  of  m}^  steamer,  hauled  up  on 
the  slope  like  a  carcass  of  some  big  river  animal.  The 
smell  of  mud,  of  primeval  mud,  by  Jove !  w^as  in  my 
nostrils,  the  high  stillness  of  primeval  forest  was  before 
my  eyes;  there  were  shiny  patches  on  the  black  creek 
The  moon  had  spread  over  everything  a  thin  layer  of 
silver — over  the  rank  grass,  over  the  mud,  upon  tJie 
wall  of  matted  vegetation  standing  higher  than  the  wall 
of  a  temple,  over  the  great  river  I  could  sec  tiu'ough  a 
somber  gap  glittering,  glittering,  as  it  flowed  broadly 
by  without  a  murmur.  All  this  was  great,  expectant, 
mute,  while  the  man  jabbered  about  himself.  I  won- 
dered wliether  the  stillness  on  the  face  of  tlie  immensity 
looking  at  us  two  were  meant  as  an  appeal  or  as  a 
menace.    What  were  we  who  had  straj^ed  in  here. '^    Could 

[  9^  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

we  handle  that  dumb  thing,  or  would  it  handle  us?  I 
felt  how  big,  how  confoundedly  big,  was  that  thing  that 
couldn't  talk,  and  perhaps  was  deaf  as  well.  What  was 
in  there?  I  could  see  a  little  ivory  coming  out  from 
there,  and  I  had  heard  Mr.  Kurtz  was  in  there.  I  had 
heaixl  enough  about  it  too — God  knows !  Yet  somehow 
it  didn't  bring  any  image  with  it — no  more  than  if  I 
had  been  told  an  angel  or  a  fiend  was  in  there.  I  be- 
liered  it  in  the  same  way  one  of  3'OU  might  believe  there 
are  inhabitants  in  the  planet  Mars.  I  knew  once  a  Scotch 
saihuaker  who  was  certain,  dead  sure,  there  were  people 
Mars.  If  you  asked  him  for  some  idea  how  they 
looked  and  behaved,  lie  would  get  shy  and  mutter  some- 
thing about  '  walking  on  all-fours.'  If  you  as  much 
as  smiled,  he  would — though  a  man  of  sixty — offer  to 
fight  you.  I  would  not  have  gone  so  far  as  to  fight 
for  Kurtz,  but  I  went  for  him.  near  enough  to  a  lie.  You 
know  I  hate,  detest,  and  can't  bear  a  lie,  not  because 
I  am  straighter  than  the  rest  of  us,  but  simply  because 
it  appalls  me.  There  is  a  taint  of  death,  a  flavor  of 
mortality  in  lies, — which  is  exactly  what  I  hate  and 
detest  in  the  world — what  I  want  to  forget.  It  makes 
me  miserable  and  sick,  hke  biting  something  rotten  would 
do.  Temperament,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  went  near  enough 
to  it  by  letting  the  young  fool  there  believe  anything 
he  liked  to  imagine  as  to  my  influence  in  Europe.  I 
became  in  an  instant  as  much  of  a  pretense  as  the  rest 
of  the  bewitched  pilgrims.  This  simply  because  I  had 
a  notion  it  somehow  would  be  of  help  to  that  Kurtz  whomj 
at  the  time  I  did  not  see — you  understand.     He  was  just. 

[  93  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

a  word  for  me.  I  did  not  see  the  man  in  the  name  any 
more  than  you  do.  Do  you  see  him?  Do  you 
see  the  story?  Do  3'OU  see  anything?  It  seems  to  me 
I  am  trying  to  tell  30U  a  dream — making  a  vain  at- 
tempt, because  no  relation  of  a  dream  can  convey  the 
dream-sensation,  that  commingling  of  absurdity,  sur- 
prise, and  bewilderment  in  a  tremor  of  struggling  revolt, 
that  notion  of  being  captured  by  the  incredible  which  is 
of  the  very  essence  of  dreams.    .     .    . " 

He  was  silent  for  a  while. 

"...  No,  it  is  impossible;  it  is  impossible  to  convey 
the  life-sensation  of  any  given  epoch  of  one's  existence, 
• — that  which  makes  its  truth,  its  meaning — its  subtle  and 
penetrating  essence.  It  is  impossible.  We  live,  as  we 
dream — alone.    .    .     ." 

He  paused  again  as  if  reflecting,  then  added — 

"  Of  course  in  this  you  fellows  see  more  than  I  could 
then.     You  see  me,  whom  you  know.    ..." 

It  had  become  so  pitch  dark  that  we  listeners  could 
hardly  see  one  another.  For  a  long  time  already  iic, 
sitting  apart,  had  been  no  more  to  us  than  a  voice.  Tisore 
was  not  a  word  from  anybody.  The  others  might  have 
been  asleep,  but  I  was  awake.  I  listened,  I  listened  on 
the  watch  for  the  sentence,  for  the  word,  that  would  give 
me  the  clew  to  the  faint  uneasiness  inspired  by  this  narra- 
tive that  seemed  to  shape  itself  without  human  lips  in 
the  heavy  night-air  of  the  river. 

"...  Yes — I  let  him  run  on,"  Marlow  began  again, 
"  and  think  what  he  pleased  about  the  powers  that  were 
behind  me.     I  did !    And  there  was  nothing  behind  me  I 

[  94  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

There  was  nothing  but  that  wretched,  old,  mangled 
steamboat  I  was  leaning  against,  while  he  talked  fluently 
about  '  the  necessity,  for  every  man  to  get  on.'  '  And 
when  one  comes  out  here,  you  conceive,  it  is  not  to  gaze 
at  the  moon.'  Mr.  Kurtz  was  a  '  universal  genius,'  but 
even  a  genius  would  find  it  easier  to  work  with  '  adequate 
tools — intelligent  men.'  He  did  not  make  bricks — ^^vhy, 
^here  was  a  physical  impossibility  in  the  way — as  I  was 
iveil  aware;  and  if  he  did  secretarial  work  for  the  man- 
ager, it  was  because  '  no  sensible  man  rejects  wantonly 
the  confidence  of  his  superiors.'  Did  I  see  it.?  I  saw  it. 
What  more  did  I  want.?  What  I  really  wanted  was 
rivets,  by  heaven  !  Rivets.  To  get  on  with  the  work — to 
stop  the  hole.  Rivets  I  wanted.  There  were  cases  of 
them  down  at  the  coast — cases — piled  up — ^burst — split ! 
You  kicked  a  loose  rivet  at  every  second  step  in  that 
station  yard  on  the  hillside.  Rivets  had  rolled  into  the 
grove  of  death.  You  could  fill  your  pockets  with  rivets 
for  the  trouble  of  stooping  down — and  there  wasn't  one 
rivet  to  be  found  where  it  was  wanted.  We  had  plates 
that  would  do,  but  nothing  to  fasten  them  with.  And 
everj^  week  the  messenger,  a  lone  negro,  letter-bag  on 
shoulder  and  staff  in  hand,  left  our  station  for  the  coast. 
And  several  times  a  w^eek  a  coast  caravan  came  in  with 
trade  goods, — ghastly  glazed  calico  that  made  you 
shudder  only  to  look  at  it,  glass  beads  value  about  a 
penny  a  quart,  confounded  spotted  cotton  handkerchiefs. 
And  no  rivets.  Three  carriers  could  have  brought  all 
that  was  wanted  to  set  that  steamboat  afloat. 
*'  He  was  becoming  confidential  now,  but  I  fancy  my 
[  95  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

unresponsive  attitude  must  have  exasperated  him  at  hist, 
for  he  judged  it  necessary  to  inform  me  he  feared  neither 
God  nor  devil,  let  alone  any  mere  man.  I  said  I  could 
see  that  very  well,  but  v/hat  I  wanted  was  a  certain 
quantity  of  rivets — and  rivets  were  what  really  Mr. 
Kurtz  wanted,  if  lie  had  onl}^  known  it.  Now  letters 
went  to  the  coast  every  week.  .  .  .  '  Aly  dear  sir,'  he 
cried, '  I  write  from  dictation.'  I  demanded  rivets.  There 
was  a  way — for  an  intelligent  man.  He  changed  liis 
manner;  became  very  cold,  and  suddenly  began  to  talk 
about  a  hippopotamus ;  wondered  whether  sleeping  en 
board  the  steamer  (I  stuck  to  my  salvage  night  and 
day)  I  wasn't  disturbed.  There  was  an  old  hippo  that 
had  the  bad  habit  of  getting  out  on  the  bank  and  roam- 
ing at  night  over  the  station  grounds.  The  pilgrims 
used  to  turn  out  in  a  body  and  empty  every  rifle  they 
could  lay  hands  on  at  him.  Some  even  had  sat  up  o' 
nights  for  him.  All  this  energy  was  wasted,  though. 
*  That  animal  has  a  charmed  life,'  he  said ;  '  but  you  can 
say  this  only  of  brutes  in  this  country.  No  man — you 
apprehend  me.-^ — no  man  here  bears  a  channed  life.'  He 
stood  there  for  a  moment  in  the  moonlight  with  his  deli- 
cate hooked  nose  set  a  little  askew,  and  his  mica  eyes 
glittering  without  a  wink,  then,  with  a  curt  Good  ni^bt, 
he  strode  off.  I  could  see  he  was  disturbed  and  consid- 
erably puzzled,  which  made  me  feel  more  hopeful  ihan 
I  had  been  for  days.  It  was  a  great  comfort  to  turn 
from  that  chap  to  nw  influential  friend,  the  ba^iercd, 
twisted,  ruined,  tin-pot  steamboat.  I  clambered  on 
board.     She  rang  under  m}^  feet  like  an  emptj^  Hunth'v 

[  96  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

R:  Palmer  biscuit-tin  kicked  along  a  gutter;  she  was 
.lotliing  so  solid  in  make,  and  rather  less  pretty  in  shape, 
but  I  had  expended  enough  hard  work  on  her  to  make 
iiie  love  her.  No  influential  friend  would  have  served 
Ime  better.  She  had  given  me  a  chance  to  come  out  a  bit 
— to  find  out  what  I  could  do.  No,  I  don't  like  Mork. 
I  hc.d  rather  laze  about  and  think  of  all  the  fine  things 
tl-at  can  be  done.  I  don't  like  work — no  man  does 
— but  I  hke  what  is  in  the  work, — the  chance  to  find 
yourself.  Your  own  reality — for  yourself,  not  for  others 
— what  no  other  man  can  ever  know-  They  can  only 
see  the  mere  show,  and  never  can  tell  what  it  really 
means. 

"  I  was  not  surprised  to  see  somebody  sitting  aft,  oa 
the  deck,  with  his  legs  dangling  over  the  mud.  You  see 
I  rather  chummed  with  the  few  mechanics  there  were  in 
that  station,  whom  the  other  pilgrims  naturally  despised 
• — en  account  of  their  imperfect  m.anners,  I  suppose. 
This  was  tlie  foreman — a  boiler-maker  by  trade — a  good 
v/orker.  He  was  a  lank,  bony,  yellows-faced  man,  with 
big  intense  eyes.  His  aspect  was  worried,  and  his  head 
vvas  as  bald  as  the  palm  of  my  hand;  but  his  hair  in 
falling  seemed  to  have  stuck  to  his  chin,  and  had  pros- 
pered in  the  new  locality,  for  his  beard  hung  down  to 
his  waist.  He  was  a  widower  with  six  young  children 
(he  had  left  them  in  charge  of  a  sister  of  his  to  come 
out  there),  and  the  passion  of  his  life  was  pigeon  flying. 
He  was  an  enthusiast  and  a  connoisseur.  He  would  rave 
fibout  pigeons.  After  work  hours  he  used  sometimes  to 
come  over  from  his  hut  for  a  talk  about  his  children  and 

[  97  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

kis  pigeons;  at  work,  when  he  had  to  crawl  in  the  mud 
under  the  bottom  of  the  steamboat,  he  would  tie  up  that 
beard  of  his  in  a  kind  of  white  serviette  he  brought  for 
the  purpose.  It  had  loops  to  go  over  his  ears.  In  the 
evening  lie  could  be  seen  squatted  on  the  bank  rinsing 
that  wrapper  in  the  creek  with  great  care,  then  spreading 
it  solemnly  on  a  bush  to  dry. 

"  I  slapped  him  on  the  back  and  shouted  '  We  shall  have 
rivets ! '  He  scrambled  to  his  feet  exclaiming  '  No ! 
Rivets ! '  as  though  he  couldn't  believe  his  ears.  Then  in 
a  low  voice,  '  You  .  .  .  eh?  '  I  don't  know  why  we 
behaved  like  lunatics.  I  put  my  finger  to  the  side  of 
my  nose  and  nodded  m3^steriously.  '  Good  for  you ! '  he 
cried,  snapped  his  fingers  above  his  head,  lifting  one 
foot.  I  tried  a  jig.  We  capered  on  the  iron  deck.  A 
frightful  clatter  came  out  of  that  hulk,  and  the  virgin 
forest  on  the  other  bank  of  the  creek  sent  it  back  in  a 
thundering  roll  upon  the  sleeping  station.  It  must  have 
made  some  of  the  pilgrims  sit  up  in  their  hovels.  A 
dark  figure  obscured  the  lighted  doorway  of  the  man- 
ager's Imt,  vanished,  then,  a  second  or  so  after,  the 
doorway  itself  vanished  too.  We  stopped,  and  the  silence 
driven  away  by  the  stamping  of  our  feet  flowed  back 
again  from  the  recesses  of  the  land.  The  great  wall  of 
vegetation,  an  exuberant  and  entangled  mass  of  trunks, 
branches,  leaves,  boughs,  festoons,  motionless  in  the 
moonlight,  was  like  a  rioting  invasion  of  soundless  life, 
a  rolling  wave  of  plants,  piled  up,  crested,  ready  to 
topple  over  the  creek,  to  sweep  every  little  man  of  us 
out  of  ins  little  existence.     And  it  moved  not.     A  dead- 

[  98  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ened  burst  of  might}^  splashes  and  snorts  reached  us 
from  afar,  as  though  an  ichthj-osaurus  had  been  taking 
a  bath  of  ghtter  in  the  great  river.  '  After  all,'  said  the 
boiler-maker  in  a  reasonable  tone,  '  why  shouldn't  we  get 
the  rivets?  '  Why  not,  indeed!  I  did  not  know  of  any 
reason  why  we  shouldn't.  '  They'll  come  in  three  weeks,' 
I  said,  confidently. 

"  But  they  didn't.  Instead  of  rivets  there  came  an 
invasion,  an  infliction,  a  visitation.  It  came  in  sections 
during  the  next  three  weeks,  each  section  headed  by  a 
donkey  carrying  a  white  man  in  new  clothes  and  tan 
shoes,  boving  from  that  elevation  right  and  left  to  the 
impressed  pilgrims.  A  quarrelsome  band  of  footsore 
sulky  niggers  trod  on  the  heels  of  the  donkey;  a  lot  of 
tents,  camp-stools,  tin  boxes,  white  cases,  brown  bales 
would  be  shot  dovv^n  in  the  courtyard,  and  the  air  of 
mystery  would  deepen  a  little  over  the  nmddle  of  the 
station.  Five  such  installments  came,  with  their  ab&urd 
air  of  disorderly  flight  with  the  loot  of  innumerable  out- 
fit shops  and  provision  stores,  that,  one  would  think,  they 
were  lugging,  after  a  raid,  into  the  wilderness  for  equit- 
able division.  It  vras  an  inextricable  mess  of  things 
decent  in  themselves  but  that  human  folly  made  look 
like  the  spoils  of  thieving. 

"  This  devoted  band  called  itself  the  Eldorado  Ex- 
ploring Expedition,  and  I  believe  they  were  sw^orn  to 
secrecy.  Their  talk,  how^ever,  was  the  talk  of  sordid 
buccaneers:  it  was  reckless  without  hardihood,  greed}' 
without  audacity,  and  cruel  without  courage;  there  was 
not  an  atom  of  foresight  or  of  serious  intention  in  the 

[  99  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

whole  batch  of  them,  and  ihey  did  not  seem  aware  these 
things  are  wanted  for  the  work  of  the  world.  To  tear 
treasure  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  land  was  their  desire, 
witli  no  more  moral  purpose  at  the  back  of  it  than  there 
is  in  burglars  breaking  into  a  safe.  Who  paid  the  ex- 
penses of  the  noble  enterprise  I  don't  know;  but  llie 
uncle  of  our  manager  was  leader  of  that  lot. 

'"  In  exterior  he  resembled  a  butcher  in  a  poor  neigh- 
borhood, and  his  eyes  had  a  look  of  sleepy  cunning.  He 
carried  his  fat  paunch  with  ostentation  on  his  short  legs, 
and  during  the  time  his  gang  infested  the  station  spoke 
to  no  one  but  his  nephew.  You  could  see  these  two  roam- 
ing about  all  day  long  with  their  heads  close  togetiier 
in  an  everlasting  confab. 

•*  I  had  given  up  worrying  myself  about  the  rivets. 
One's  capacity  for  that  kind  of  folly  is  more  iiii^itcd 
tlian  you  would  suppose.  I  said  Hang ! — and  let  things 
slide.  I  had  plenty  of  time  for  meditation,  and  now 
and  tlien  I  would  give  some  thought  to  Kurtz.  I  wasn't 
very  interested  in  him.  No.  Still,  I  was  curious  tc  see 
whether  this  man,  who  had  come  out  equipped  with  moral 
ideas  of  some  sort,  would  climb  to  the  top  after  all,  and 
how  he  would  set  about  liis  work  when  there." 


II 

*'  One  evening  as  I  was  lying  flat  on  the  deck  of  my 

steamboat,  I  heard  voices  approaching — and  there  were 

the  nephew  and  the  ancle  strolling  along  the  bank.     I 

laid  my  head  on  my  arm  again,  and  had  nearly  lost 

[  100  ] 


HEART    OF    DAR-KNJ^S^S-,  .     ,      ; 

mvself  in  a  doze,  when  somebody  said  in  my  car,  as  it 
were :  '  I  am  as  harmless  as  a  little  child,  but  I  don't  like 
to  be  dictated  to.  Am  I  the  manager — or  am  I  not?  I 
was  ordered  to  send  him  there.  It's  incredible.'  .  ,  . 
I  became  aware  that  the  two  were  standing  on  the  shore 
alongside  the  forepart  of  the  steamboat,  just  below  my 
head.  I  did  not  move ;  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  move :  I 
was  sleepy.  '  It  is  unpleasant,'  grunted  the  uncle.  '  He 
has  aeked  the  Administration  to  be  sent  there,'  said  the 
other,  '  with  the  idea  of  showing  what  he  could  do ;  and 
I  was  instructed  accordingly.  Look  at  the  influence  that 
man  must  have.  Is  it  not  frightful.'^ '  They  both  agreed 
it  was  frightful,  then  made  several  bizarre  remarks: 
'  INIake  rain  and  fine  weather — one  man — the  Council — 
b}^  th«  nose  ' — bits  of  absurd  sentences  that  got  the 
better  of  my  drowsiness,  so  that  I  had  pretty  near  the 
whole  of  my  wits  about  me  when  the  uncle  said,  '  The 
climate  may  do  away  with  this  difficulty  for  3^ou.  Is  he 
alone  there .^'  'Yes,'  answered  the  manager;  'he  sent 
his  assistant  down  the  river  with  a  note  to  me  in  these 
terms:  "Clear  this  poor  devil  out  of  the  country,  and 
don't  bother  sending  more  of  that  sort.  I  had  rather 
be  alone  than  have  the  kind  of  men  you  can  dispose  of 
v/ith  me."  It  was  more  than  a  year  ago.  Can  you 
imagine  such  impudence!  '  'Anything  since  then.'*' 
asked  the  other,  hoarsch',  'Ivory,'  jerked  the  nephew; 
'  lots  of  it — prime  sort — lots — most  annoying,  from 
hiivi.'  'And  with  that.?'  questioned  the  heavy  rumble. 
'  Invoice,'  was  the  reply  fired  out,  so  to  speak.  Then 
silence.     They  had  been  talking  about  Kurtz. 

[   101   ] 


Kf:^VJlT    OF    DARKNESS 

"  I  was  broad  awake  by  this  time,  but,  lying  perfectly 
at  ease,  remained  still,  having  no  inducement  to  change 
my  position.  '  How  did  that  ivorj-  come  all  this  wa}^  ?  ' 
growled  the  elder  man,  who  seemed  very  vexed.  The 
other  explained  that  it  had  come  with  a  fleet  of  canoes  in 
charge  of  an  English  half-caste  clerk  Kurtz  had  with 
him ;  that  Kurtz  had  apparently  intended  to  return  him- 
self, the  station  being  by  that  time  bare  of  goods  and 
stores,  but  after  coming  three  hundred  miles,  had  sud- 
denly decided  to  go  back,  which  he  started  to  do  alone 
in  a  small  dug-out  with  four  paddlers,  leaving  the  half- 
caste  to  continue  down  the  river  with  the  ivory.  The  two 
fellows  there  seemed  astounded  at  anybody  attempting 
such  a  thing.  They  were  at  a  loss  for  an  adequate  mo- 
tive. As  to  me,  I  seemed  to  see  Kurtz  for  the  first  time. 
It  was  a  distinct  glimpse:  the  dug-out,  four  paddling 
savages,  and  the  lone  white  man  turning  his  back  sud- 
denly on  the  headquarters,  on  relief,  on  thoughts  of 
home — perhaps ;  setting  his  face  towards  the  depths  of 
the  wilderness,  towards  his  empty  and  desolate  station. 
I  did  not  know  the  motive.  Perhaps  he  was  just  simply 
a  fine  fellow  who  stuck  to  his  work  for  its  own  sake.  His 
name,  you  understand,  had  not  been  pronounced  once. 
He  was  '  that  man.'  The  half-caste,  who,  as  far  as  I 
could  see,  had  conducted  a  difficult  trip  with  great  pru- 
dence and  pluck,  was  invariably  alluded  to  as  '  that 
scoundrel.'  The  '  scoundrel '  had  reported  that  tlie 
'  man  '  had  been  very  ill — had  recovered  imperfectly. 
.  .  .  The  two  below  me  moved  away  then  a  few  paces, 
and  strolled  back  and  forth  at  some  little  distance.  I 
r   102   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

heard :  '  Military  post — doctor — two  hundred  miles — 
quite  alone  now — unavoidable  delays — nine  months — no 
news — strange  rumors.'  They  approached  again,  just 
as  the  manager  was  saying,  '  No  one,  as  far  as  I  know, 
unless  a  species  of  wandering  trader — a  pestilential  fel- 
low, snapping  ivory  from  the  natives.'  Who  was  it  they 
were  talking  about  now.?  I  gathered  in  snatches  that 
this  was  some  man  supposed  to  be  in  Kurtz's  district,  and 
of  whom  the  manager  did  not  approve.  '  We  will  not  be 
free  from  unfair  competition  till  one  of  these  fellows  is 
hanged  for  an  example,'  he  said.  '  Certainly,'  grunted 
the  other ;  '  get  him  hanged  !  Why  not  ?  Anything — 
anything  can  be  done  in  this  country.  That's  what  I 
say;  nobody  here,  you  understand,  herCy  can  endanger 
your  position.  And  why  ?  You  stand  the  climate — you 
outlast  them  all.     The  danger  is  in  Europe;  but  there 

before  I  left  I  took  care  to '     They  moved  off  and 

whispered,  then  their  voices  rose  again.  '  The  extraor- 
dinary series  of  delays  is  not  my  fault.  I  did  my 
possible.'  The  fat  man  sighed,  '  Very  sad.'  '  And  the 
pestiferous  absurdity  of  his  talk,'  continued  the  other; 
'  he  bothered  me  enough  when  he  was  here.  "  Each 
station  should  be  like  a  beacon  on  the  road  towards  better 
things,  a  center  for  trade  of  course,  but  also  for  human- 
izing, improving,  instructing."    Conceive  you — that  ass  ! 

And  he  wants  to  be  manager!     No,  it's '     Here  he 

got  choked  by  excessive  indignation,  and  I  lifted  my 
head  the  least  bit.  I  was  surprised  to  see  how  near  they 
were — right  under  me.  I  could  have  spat  upon  their 
hats.     They  were  looking  on  the  ground,  absorbed  in 

[  103  j 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

thought.  The  manager  was  switching  his  leg  with  a 
slender  twig:  his  sagacious  relative  lifted  his  head.  *  i  ou 
have  been  v.eli  since  3^ou  came  out  tliis  time.^  '  he  asked. 
The  other  gave  a  start.  '  Who?  I.'^  Oh !  Like  a  charm 
— like  a  charm.  But  the  rest — oh,  my  goodness!  All 
sick.  They  die  so  quick,  too,  that  I  haven't  the  time 
to  send  them  out  of  the  countr}^ — it's  incredible  ! '  *  H'lr.. 
Just  so,'  grunted  the  uncle.  '  Ah !  my  bo}',  trust  to  tin's 
— I  say,  trust  to  this.'  I  saw  him  extend  his  short  flipper 
of  an  arm  for  a  gesture  that  took  in  the  forest,  the 
creek,  the  mud,  the  river, — seemed  to  beckon  with  a  dis- 
honoring flourish  before  the  sunlit  face  of  the  land  a 
treacherous  appeal  to  the  lurking  death,  to  the  hidden 
evil,  to  the  profound  darkness  of  its  heart.  It  was  so 
startling  that  I  leaped  to  my  feet  and  looked  back  ;it 
the  edge  of  the  forest,  as  though  I  had  expected  an 
answer  of  some  sort  to  that  black  display  of  confidence, 
"^^ou  know  the  foolish  notions  that  come  to  one  soAie- 
times.  The  high  stillness  confronted  these  two  figures 
with  its  ominous  patience,  waiting  for  the  passing  away 
of  a  fantastic  invasion. 

"  They  swore  aloud  together — out  of  sheer  fright.  I 
believe — then  pretending  not  to  know  anything  of  my 
existence,  turned  back  to  the  station.  The  sun  was  low  •, 
and  leaning  forw^ard  side  by  side,  they  seemed  to  be 
tugging  painfull}'  uphill  their  two  ridiculous  shadows 
of  unequal  length,  that  trailed  behind  them  slowly  over 
the  tall  grass  without  bending  a  single  blade. 

"  In  a  few  days  the  Eldorado  Expedition  went  into  the 
patient  wilderness,  that  closed  upon  it  as  the  sea  cIo3::.s 


HEART    OF   DARKNESS 

over  a  diver.  Long  afterwards  the  news  came  that  all 
the  donkeys  were  dead.  I  know  nothing  as  to  the  fate  of 
the  less  valuable  animals.  They,  no  doubt,  like  the  rest 
of  us,  found  what  they  deserved.  I  did  not  inquire.  I 
was  then  rather  excited  at  the  prospect  of  meeting  Kurtz 
very  soon.  When  I  sa}^  very  soon  I  mean  it  compara- 
tively. It  was  just  two  months  from  the  da}^  v/e  left 
the  creek  when  we  came  to  the  bank  below  Kurtz's  sta- 
tion. 

"  Going  up  that  river  was  like  traveling  back  to  the 
earliest  beginnings  of  the  world,  when  vegetation  rioted 
on  the  earth  and  the  big  trees  were  kings.  An  empty 
stream,  a  great  silence,  an  impenetrable  forest.  The  air 
was  warm,  thick,  heavy,  sluggish.  There  was  no  joy 
in  the  brillrance  of  sunshine.  The  long  stretches  of  the 
waterwa}'-  ran  on,  deserted,  into  the  gloom  of  over- 
shadowed distances.  On  silvery  sandbanks  hippos  and 
alligators  sunned  themselves  side  by  side.  The  broaden- 
ing waters  flowed  through  a  mob  of  wooded  islands ;  3^ou 
lost  3'our  way  on  that  river  as  you  would  in  a  desert,  and 
butted  all  day  long  against  shoals,  trying  to  find  the 
channel,  till  you  thought  yourself  bewitched  and  cut 
off  for  ever  from  everything  you  had  known  once — some- 
where— far  away — in  another  existence  perhaps.  There 
were  moments  when  one\'<  past  came  back  to  one,  as  it 
will  sometimes  when  you  have  not  a  moment  to  spare 
to  yourself;  but  it  came  in  the  shape  of  an  unrestful 
and  noisy  dream,  remembered  with  wonder  amongst  the 
overwhelming  realities  of  this  strange  world  of  plants, 
and  water,  and  silence.     And  this  stillness  of  life  did 

[  105  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

not  in  the  least  resemble  a  peace.  It  was  the  stillness  of 
an  implacable  force  brooding  over  an  inscrutable  inten- 
tion. It  looked  at  you  with  a  vengeful  aspect.  I  got 
used  to  it  afterwards ;  I  did  not  see  it  any  more ;  I  had 
no  time.  I  had  to  keep  guessing  at  the  channel;  I  had 
to  discern,  mostly  by  inspiration,  the  signs  of  hidden 
banks;  I  watched  for  sunken  stones;  I  was  learning  to 
clap  my  teeth  smartly  before  my  heart  flew  out,  when 
I  shaved  by  a  fluke  som>e  infernal  sly  old  snag  that  would 
have  ripped  the  life  out  of  the  tin-pot  steamboat  and 
drowned  all  the  pilgrims ;  I  had  to  keep  a  look-out  for 
the  signs  of  dead  wood  we  could  cut  up  in  the  night  for 
next  day's  steaming.  When  you  have  to  attend  to 
things  of  that  sort,  to  the  mere  incidents  of  the  sur- 
face, the  reality — the  reality,  I  tell  you — fades.  The 
inner  truth  is  hidden — luckil^^,  luckily.  But  I  felt  it 
all  the  same ;  I  felt  often  its  mysterious  stillness  watching 
me  at  my  monkey  tricks,  just  as  it  watches  you  fellows 
performing  on  your  respective  tight-ropes  for — what  is 
it.^  half-a-crown  a  tumble " 

"  Try  to  be  civil,  Marlow,"  growled  a  voice,  and  I 
knew  there  was  at  least  one  listener  awake  besides  my- 
self. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  forgot  the  heartache  whic]i 
makes  up  the  rest  of  the  price.  And  indeed  what  docs 
the  price  matter,  if  the  trick  be  well  done.'^  You  do 
your  tricks  very  well.  And  I  didn't  do  badly  either, 
since  I  managed  not  to  sink  that  steamboat  on  my  first 
trip.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  yet.  Imagine  a  blindfolded 
man  set  to  drive  a  van  over  a  bad  road.  I  sweated  and 
[  106  1 


HEAHT    OF    DARKNESS 

shivered  over  thai  business  considerably,  I  can  tell  you. 
After  ail,  for  a  seaman,  to  scrape  the  bottom  of  the  thing 
that's  supposed  to  float  all  the  time  under  his  care  is 
the  unpardonable  sin.     No  one  may  know  of  it,  but  you 
never  forget  the  thump — eh?    A  blow  on  the  very  heart. 
You  remember  it,  3^ou  dream  of  it,  you  wake  up  at  night 
and  think  of  it — years  after — and  go  hot  and  cold  all 
over.     I  don't  pretend  to  say  that  steamboat  floated  all 
the  lime.     More  than  once  she  had  to  wade  for  a  bit, 
with  twenty  cannibals  splashing  around    and    pushing. 
We  had  enlisted  some  of  these  chaps  on  the  way  for  a 
crew.      Fine   fellows — cannibals — in  their  place.    Thej^ 
Y>  ere  men  one  could  work  with,  and  I  am  grateful  to 
them.     And,  after  all,  they  did  not  eat  each  other  before 
my  face:  they  had  brought  along  a  provision  of  hippo- 
meat  which  Avent  rotten,  and  made  the  mystery  of  the 
wilderness  stink  in  my  nostrils.     Phoo!     I  can  sniff  it 
now,     I  had  the  manager  on  board  and  three  or  four 
pilgrims  with  their  staves — all  complete.     Sometimes  we 
came  upon  a  station  close  by  the  bank,  clinging  to  the 
skirts  of  the  unknown,  and  the  white  men  rushing  out 
of  a  tumble-down  liovel,  with  great  gestures  of  joy  and 
surprise  and  welcome,  seemed  very  strange, — had  the  ap- 
pearance of  being  held  there  captive  by  a  spell.  The  word 
ivory  would  ring  in  the  air  for  a  while — and  on  we  went 
again  into  the  silence,  along  empty  reaches,  round  the 
still  bends,  between  the  high  walls  of  our  winding  way, 
reverberating  in  hollow  claps  the  ponderous  beat  of  the 
stern-wheel.      Trees,  trees,  millions    of    trees,    massive, 
immense,  running  up  high;  and  at  their  foot,  hugging 

[  107  ] 


HEART    OF    DARK >  ESS 

the  bank  against  the  stream,  crept  the  little  begrimed 
steamboat,  like  a  sluggish  beetle  crawling  on  the  floor 
of  a  lofty  portico.  It  made  you  feel  very  small,  very 
lost,  and  yet  it  was  not  altogether  depressing  that  feel- 
ing. After  all,  if  you  were  small,  the  grimy  beetle 
crawled  on — which  was  just  what  you  wanted  it  to  do. 
Where  the  pilgrims  imagined  it  crawled  to  I  don't  know. 
To  some  place  where  they  expected  to  get  something,  I 
bet !  For  me  it  crawled  toward  Kurtz — exclusively ;  but 
when  the  steam-pipes  started  leaking  we  crawled  very 
slow.  The  reaches  opened  before  us  and  closed  behind, 
as  if  the  forest  had  stepped  leisurely  across  the  water 
to  bar  the  way  for  our  return.  We  penetrated  deeper 
and  deeper  into  the  heart  of  darkness.  It  was  very  quiet 
there.  At  night  sometimes  the  roll  of  drums  behind  the 
curtain  of  trees  would  run  up  the  river  and  remain 
sustained  faintly,  as  if  hovering  in  the  air  high  over  our 
lieadSj  till  the  first  break  of  day.  Whether  it  meant  war, 
peace,  or  prayer  we  could  not  tell.  The  dawns  were 
heralded  by  the  descent  of  a  chill  stillness;  the  wood- 
cutters slept,  their  fires  burned  low;  the  snapping  of 
a  twig  would  make  you  start.  We  were  wanderers  on 
a  prehistoric  earth,  on  an  earth  that  wore  the  aspect 
of  an  unknown  planet.  We  could  have  fancied  ourselves 
the  first  of  men  taking  possession  of  an  accursed  in- 
heritance, to  be  subdued  at  the  cost  of  profound  anguish 
and  of  excessive  toil.  But  suddenly,  as  we  struggled 
round  a  bend,  there  would  be  a  glimpse  of  rush  walls, 
of  peaked  gi-ass-roofs,  a  burst  of  yells,  a  whirl  of  black 
limbs,  a  mass  of  hands  clapping,  of  feet  stamping,  of 
[  108  1 


HEART    OF    DxVRKNESS 

bodies  swa3'ing,  of  eyes  rolling,  under  the  droop  of  heavy 
and  motionless  foliage.  The  steamer  toiled  along  slowly 
on  the  edge  of  a  black  and  incomprehensible  frenzy.  The 
1  prehistoric  man  was  cursing  us,  praying  to  us,  wel- 
coming us — who  could  tell?  We  were  cut  off  from  the 
comprehension  of  our  surroundings;  we  glided  past  like 
phantoms,  wondering  and  secretly  appalled,  as  sane  men 
would  be  before  an  enthusiastic  outbreak  in  a  madhouse. 
We  could  not  understand,  because  we  were  too  far  and 
could  not  remember,  because  we  were  traveling  in  the 
night  of  first  ages,  of  those  ages  that  are  gone,  leaving 
hardly  a  sign — and  no  memories. 

"  The  earth  seemed  unearthly.  We  are  accustomed  to 
look  upon  the  shackled  form  of  a  conquered  monster,  but 
there — there  you  could  look  at  a  thing  monstrous  and 

free.    It  was  unearthly,  and  the  men  were No,  they 

were  not  inhuman.  W^ell,  you  know,  that  was  the  worst 
of  it — this  suspicion  of  their  not  being  inhuman.  It 
would  come  slowly  to  one.  They  howled,  and  leaped,  and 
spun,  and  made  horrid  faces ;  but  what  thrilled  you  was 
just  the  thought  of  their  humanity — ^like  yours — the 
thought  of  your  remote  kinship  with  this  wild  and  pas- 
sionate uproar.  Ugh*.  Yes,  it  was  ugly  enough;  but 
if  you  were  man  enough  3'ou  would  admit  to  yourself 
that  there  was  in  you  just  the  faintest  trace  of  a  re- 
sponse to  the  terrible  frankness  of  that  noise,  a  dim 
.•suspicion  of  there  being  a  meaning  in  it  which  you — 
you  so  remote  from  the  night  of  first  ages — could  com- 
prehend. And  why  not.^  The  mind  of  man  is  capable 
of  anything — because  everything  is  in  it,  all  the  past 
[  109  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ois  well  as  all  the  future.     What  vras  there  after  all? 
Joy,  fear,  sorrow,  devotion,  valor,  rage — who  can  tell? 

1  • — ^but  truth — truth  stripped  of  its  cloak  of  time.  Let 
the  fool  gape  and  shudder — the  man  knows,  and  can 
look  on  without  a  v/ink.  But  he  must  at  least  be  as 
much  of  a  man  as  these  on  the  shore.     He  must  meet 

*  hat  truth  with  his  own  true  stuff — v/ith  his  own  inborn 
strength.  Principles?  Principles  won't  do.  Acquisi- 
tions, clothes,  pretty  rags — rags  that  would  fly  off  at 
the  first  good  shake.  No;  you  want  a  deliberate  belief. 
An  appeal  to  me  in  this  fiendish  row — is  there?  ^  ery 
well;  I  hear;  I  admit,  but  I  have  a  voice  too,  and  for 
good  or  evil  mine  is  the  speech  that  cannot  be  silenced. 
Of  course,  a.  fool,  what  vvdth  sheer  fright  and  fine  senti- 
ments, is  always  safe.  Who's  that  grunting?  You 
wonder  I  didn't  go  ashore  for  a  howl  and  a  dance  ?  Well, 
no — I  didn't.  Fine  sentiments,  you  say?  Fine  senti- 
ments, be  hanged !  I  had  no  time.  I  had  to  mess  about 
with  white-lead  and  strips  of  woolen  blanket  helping 
to  put  bandages  on  those  leaky  steam-pipes — I  tell  you. 
I  had  to  watch  the  steering,  and  circumvent  those  snags, 
and  get  the  tin-pot  along  by  hook  or  b}'  crook.  There 
was  surface-truth  enough  in  these  things  to  save  a  wiser 
man.  And  between  whiles  I  had  to  look  after  the  savage 
who  was  fireman.  He  was  an  improved  specimen;  he 
could  fire  up  a  vertical  boiler.  He  was  there  below  me, 
and,  upon  m}^  word,  to  look  at  him  was  as  edifying  as 
seeing  a  dog  in  a  parody  of  breeches  and  a  feather  hat,  J 
walking  on  his  hind-legs.  A  few  months  of  training  had 
done   for   that   really   fine   chap.      He   squinted   at   the 

r  110  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

steam-gauge  and  at  the  water-gauge  with  an  evident 
eifort  of  intrepidity — and  he  had  filed  teeth  too,  the 
poor  devil,  and  the  wool  of  his  pate  shaved  into  queer 
patterns,  and  three  ornamental  scars  on  each  of  his 
cheeks.  He  ought  to  have  been  clapping  his  hands  and 
stamping  his  feet  on  the  bank,  instead  of  which  he  was 
hard  at  work,  a  thrall  to  strange  witchcraft,  full  of- 
improving  knowledge.  He  was  useful  because  he  had 
been  instructed ;  and  vrhat  he  knew  was  this — that  should 
the  water  in  that  transparent  thing  disappear,  the  evil 
spirit  inside  the  boiler  would  get  angry  through  the 
greatness  of  his  thirst,  and  take  a  terrible  vengeance. 
So  he  sweated  and  fired  up  and  watched  the  glass  fear- 
fully (with  an  impromptu  charm,  made  of  rags,  tied  to 
his  arm,  and  a  piece  of  polished  bone,  as  big  as  a  watch, 
stuck  flatways  through  his  lower  lip),  while  the  vrooded 
banks  slipped  past  us  slowly,  the  short  noise  was  left 
behind,  the  interminable  miles  of  silence — and  we  crept 
on,  towards  Kurtz.  But  the  snags  were  thick,  th?  water 
was  treacherous  and  shallow,  the  boiler  seemed  indeed 
to  have  a  sulky  devil  in  it,  and  thus  neither  that  fire- 
man nor  I  had  any  time  to  peer  into  our  creepy  thoughts. 
"  Some  fifty  miles  below  the  Inner  Station  we  came 
upon  a  hut  of  reeds,  an  inclined  and  melancholy  pole, 
with  the  unrecognizable  tatters  of  what  had  been  a  flag 
of  some  sort  flying  from  it,  and  a  neatly  stacked  wood- 
pile. This  was  unexpected.  We  came  to  the  bank,  and 
on  the  stack  of  firewood  found  a  flat  piece  of  board  with 
some  faded  pencil-writing  on  it.  When  deciphered  it 
said :  '  Wood  for  you.   Hurry  up.   Approach  cautiously.'' 

Ill 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

There  was  a  signature,  but  it  was  illegible — not  Kurtz 
— a  much  longer  word.  Hurrj^  up.  Where?  Up  the 
river?  'Approach  cautiously.'  We  had  not  done  so. 
But  the  warning  could  not  have  been  meant  for  the  place 
where  it  could  be  cnly  found  after  approach.  Some- 
thing was  Avrong  above.  But  what — and  how  much? 
That  was  the  question.  We  commented  adversely  upon 
the  imbecility  of  that  telegraphic  style.  The  bush  around 
said  nothing,  and  would  not  let  us  look  very  far,  either. 
A  torn  curtain  of  red  twill  hung  in  the  doorway  of  tb.c 
hut,  and  flapped  sadly  in  our  faces.  The  dwelling  v.a> 
dismantled;  but  we  could  see  a  white  man  had  lived 
there  not  very  long  age.  There  remained  a  rude  tabic 
— a  plank  on  two  posts ;  a  heap  of  rubbish  reposed  in  a 
dark  corner,  and  by  the  doer  I  picked  up  a  book.  It 
liad  lost  its  covers,  and  the  pages  had  been  thumbed  into 
a  state  of  extremely  dirty  softness  ;  but  the  back  had  been 
lovingly  stitched  afresh  with  white  cotton  thread,  wiiich 
looked  clean  yet.  It  w^as  an  extraordinary  find.  Its  title 
was,  '  An  Inquiry  into  some  Points  of  Seamanship,'  by  a 
man  Tower,  Tov/son — some  such  name — Master  in  his 
Majesty's  Navy.  The  matter  looked  dreary  reading 
enough,  w^ith  illustrative  diagrams  and  repulsive  tables  of 
figures,  and  the  copy  was  sixty  j^ears  old.  I  handled  this 
amazing  antiquity  with  the  greatest  possible  tenderness, 
lest  it  should  dissolve  in  my  hands.  Within,  Towson  or 
Towser  was  inquiring  earnestly  into  the  breaking  strain 
of  ships'  chains  and  tackle,  and  other  such  matters.  Not 
a  very  enthralling  book;  but  at  the  first  glance  you 
could  see  there  a  singleness  of  intention,  an  honest  con 

[  112  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

cem  for  the  right  way  of  going  to  work,  which  uiaJe 
these  humble  pages,  thought  out  so  man}^  years  ago, 
luminous  with  another  than  a  professional  light.  The 
simple  old  sailor,  with  his  talk  of  chains  and  purchases, 
made  me  forget  the  jungle  and  the  pilgrims  in  a  delicious 
sensation  of  having  come  upon  something  unmistakably 
real.  Such  a  book  being  there  was  wonderful  enough; 
but  still  more  astounding  were  the  notes  penciled  in  the 
margin,  and  plainly  referring  to  the  text.  I  couldn't 
believe  my  eyes !  They  were  in  cipher !  Yes,  it  looked 
like  cipher.  Fancy  a  man  lugging  with  him  a  book  of 
that  description  into  this  nowhere  and  studying  it— 
and  making  notes — in  cipher  at  that!  It  was  an  ex- 
travagant mystery. 

'•  I  had  been  dimly  aware  for  some  time  of  a  w^orr^'irig 
noise,  and  when  I  lifted  my  eyes  I  saw  the  wood-pile 
was  gone,  and  the  manager,  aided  by  all  the  pilgrim.*^, 
was  shouting  at  me  from  the  river-side.  I  slipped  the 
book  into  my  pocket.  I  assure  you  to  leave  off  reading 
was  like  tearing  myself  away  from  the  shelter  of  an  old 
and  solid  friendship. 

*'  I  started  the  lame  engine  ahead.  '  It  must  be  this 
miserable  trader — this  intruder,'  exclaimed  the  manager, 
looking  back  malevolently  at  the  place  we  had  left.  '  He 
must  be  English,'  I  said.  '  It  will  not  save  him  from 
getting  into  trouble  if  he  is  not  careful,'  muttered  the 
manager  darkly.  I  observed  with  assumed  innocence  that 
no  man  was  safe  from  trouble  in  this  world. 

"  The  current  was  more  rapid  now,  the  steamer  seemed 
at  her  last  gasp,  the  stern-wheel  flopped  languidly,  .-md 

[   113  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

I  caught  myself  listening  on  tiptoe  for  the  next  beat  of 
the  float,  for  in  sober  truth  I  expected  the  wretched  thing 
to  give  up  every  moment.  It  was  like  watching  the  last 
flickers  of  a  life.  But  still  we  crawled.  Sometimes  I 
would  pick  out  a  tree  a  little  way  ahead  to  measure  our 
progress  towards  Kurtz  b}^  but  I  lost  it  invariably  be- 
fore we  got  abreast.  To  keep  the  eyes  so  long  on  one 
thing  was  too  much  for  human  patience.  The  manager 
displayed  a  beautiful  resignation.  I  fretted  and  fumed 
and  took  to  arguing  with  myself  whether  or  no  I  vv'ould 
talk  openly  with  Kurtz ;  but  before  I  could  come  to  any 
conclusion  it  occurred  to  me  that  my  speech  or  my  silence, 
indeed  any  action  of  mine,  would  be  a  mere  futility. 
What  did  it  matter  what  anyone  knew  or  ignored.^  What 
did  it  matter  who  was  manager.'^  One  gets  sometimes 
such  a  flash  of  insight.  The  essentials  of  this  affair  lay 
deep  under  the  surface,  beyond  my  reach,  and  beyond 
my  power  of  meddling. 

"  Towards  the  evening  of  the  second  day  we  judged 
ourselves  about  eight  miles  from  Kurtz's  station.  I 
wanted  to  push  on;  but  the  manager  looked  grave,  and 
told  me  the  navigation  up  there  was  so  dangerous  that  it 
would  be  advisable,  the  sun  being  very  low  already,  to 
wait  where  we  were  till  next  morning.  Moreover,  he 
pointed  out  that  if  the  warning  to  approach  cautiously 
were  to  be  followed,  we  must  approach  in  daylight — 
not  at  dusk,  or  in  the  dark.  This  was  sensible  enough. 
Eight  miles  meant  nearly  three  hours'  steaming  for  us, 
and  I  could  also  sec  suspicious  ripples  at  the  upper  end 
of  the  reach.     Nevertheless,  I  was  annoyed  beyond  ex- 

[  11*  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

pression  at  the  delay,  and  most  unreasonably  too,  since 
one  night  more  could  not  matter  much  after  so  many 
months.  As  we  had  plenty  of  wood,  and  caution  was 
the  word,  I  brought  up  in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 
The  reach  was  narrow,  straight,  with  high  sides  like  a 
railway  cutting.  The  dusk  came  gliding  into  it  long 
before  the  sun  had  set.  The  current  ran  smooth  and 
swift,  but  a  dumb  immobility  sat  on  the  banks.  The 
living  trees,  lashed  together  by  the  creepers  and  every 
i  living  bush  of  the  undergrowth,  might  have  been  changed 
i  into  stone,  even  to  the  slenderest  twig,  to  the  lightest 
leaf.  It  was  not  sleep — it  seemed  unnatural,  like  a 
state  of  trance.  Not  the  faintest  sound  of  any  kind 
could  be  heard.  You  looked  on  amazed,  and  began  to 
suspect  3^ourself  of  being  deaf — then  the  night  came 
suddenly,  and  struck  you  blind  as  well.  About  three 
in  the  morning  some  large  fish  leaped,  and  the  loud 
splash  made  me  jump  as  though  a  gun  had  been  fired* 
When  the  sun  rose  there  was  a  white  fog,  very  warm 
and  clammy,  and  more  blinding  than  the  night.  It  did 
not  shift  or  drive;  it  was  just  there,  standing  all  round 
3^ou  like  something  solid.  At  e^ght  or  nine,  perhaps.  It 
lifted  as  a  shutter  lifts.  We  had  a  glimpse  of  the  tower- 
ing multitude  of  trees,  of  the  immense  matted  jungle, 
with  the  blrzing  little  ball  of  the  sun  hanging  over  it — 
all  perfectly  still — and  then  the  white  shutter  came  down 
again,  smoothly,  as  if  sliding  in  greased  grooves.  I 
ordered  the  chain,  which  we  had  begun  to  heave  in,  to 
be  paid  out  again.  Before  it  stopped  running  v^'ith  a 
muffled  rattle,  a  cry,  a  very  loud  cr}^,  as  of  infinite 
[  115  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

desolation,  soared  slowly  in  the  opaque  air.  It  ceased. 
A  complaining  clamor,  modulated  in  savage  discords, 
filled  our  ears.  The  sheer  unexpectedness  of  it  made 
my  hair  stir  under  my  cap.  I  don't  know  how  it  struck 
the  others:  to  me  it  seemed  as  though  the  mist  itself 
had  screamed,  so  suddenly,  and  apparently  from  all 
sides  at  once,  did  this  tumultuous  and  mournful  uproar 
arise.  It  culminated  in  a  hurried  outbreak  of  almost 
intolerably  excessive  shrieking,  which  stopped  short,  leav- 
ing us  stiffened  in  a  variety  of  silly  attitudes,  and  ob- 
stinately listening  to  the  nearly  as  appalling  and  ex- 
cessive silence.  '  Good  God !  What  is  the  meaning ?  ' 

stammered  at  my  elbow  one  of  the  pilgrims, — a  little 
fat  man,  with  sandy  hair  and  red  whiskers,  who  wore 
side-spring  boots,  and  pink  pyjamas  tucked  into  his 
socks.  Two  others  remained  open-mouthed  a  whole  min- 
ute, then  dashed  into  the  little  cabin,  to  rush  out  in- 
continently and  stand  darting  scared  glances,  with  Win- 
chesters at  '  ready  '  in  their  hands.  What  we  could  stc 
was  just  the  steamer  we  were  on,  her  outlines  blurred  as 
tliough  she  had  been  on  the  point  of  dissolving,  ami  a 
mi.sty  strip  of  water,  perhaps  two  feet  broad,  around 
her — and  that  was  all.  The  rest  of  the  world  was  no- 
where, as  far  as  our  eyes  and  ears  were  concerned.  Just 
nowhere.  Gone,  disappeared ;  swept  off  without  leaving 
a  whisper  or  a  shadow  behind. 

•'  I  went  forward,  and  ordered  the  chain  to  be  hauled 

ill  short,  so  as  to  be  ready  to  trip  the  anchor  and  move 

the  steamboat  at  once  if  necessary.    '  Will  they  attack  ?  ' 

whispered  an  awed  voice.     '  We  will  be  all  butchered  in 

[  116  1 


HEART    OF   DARKNESS 

this  fog,'  murmured  another.  The  faces  twitched  \riih 
the  strain,  the  hands  trembled  slightly,  the  eyes  forgot 
to  wink.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  the  contrast  of  ex- 
pressions of  the  white  men  and  of  the  black  fellows  of 
our  crew,  who  were  as  much  strangers  to  that  part  of  the 
river  as  we,  though  their  homes  were  only  eight  hundred 
miles  away.  The  whites,  of  course  greatly  discomposed, 
had  besides  a  curious  look  of  being  painfully  shocked 
by  such  an  outrageous  row.  The  others  had  an  alert, 
naturally  interested  expression;  but  their  faces  were  es- 
sentially quiet,  even  those  of  the  one  or  two  who  grinned 
as  they  hauled  at  the  chain.  Several  exchanged  short, 
grunting  phrases,  wliich  seemed  to  settle  the  matter  to 
their  satisfaction.  Their  headman,  a  young,  broad- 
chested  black,  severely  draped  in  dark-blue  fringed 
cloths,  with  fierce  nostrils  and  his  hair  all  done  up  art- 
fully in  oily  ringlets,  stood  near  me.  '  Aha  ! '  I  said,  just 
for  good  fellowship's  sake.  '  Catch  'im,'  he  snapped, 
with  a  bloodshot  widening  of  his  eyes  and  a  flash  of 
sharp  teetii — *  catch  'im.  Give  'im  to  us.'  '  To  you, 
eh?  '  I  asked;  ^  what  would  you  do  with  them.?  '  '  Eat 
'im  ! '  he  said  curtly,  and,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  rail, 
looked  out  into  the  fog  in  a  dignified  and  profoundly 
pensive  attitude.  I  would  no  doubt  have  been  properly 
horrified,  had  it  not  occurred  to  me  that  he  and  his 
chaps  must  be  very  hungry:  that  they  must  have  been 
growing  increasingly  hungry  for  at  least  this  month 
past.  They  had  been  engaged  for  six  months  (I  don't 
think  a  single  one  of  them  had  any  clear  idea  of  tinie, 
as  we  at  the  end  of  countless  ages  have.     They  still  be- 

[  in  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

longed  to  the  beginnings  of  time — had  no  inherited  ex- 
perience to  teach  them  as  it  were),  and  of  course,  as 
long  as  there  was  a  piece  of  paper  written  over  in  ac- 
cordance with  some  farcical  law  or  other  made  dovrn  Mie 
river,  it  didn't  enter  anybody's  head  to  trouble  how 
they  would  live.  Certainly  they  had  brought  with  them 
some  rotten  hippo-meat,  which  couldn't  have  lasted  very 
long,  anyway,  even  if  the  pilgrims  hadn't,  in  the  midst 
of  a  shocking  hullabaloo,  thrown  a  considerable  quantity 
of  it  overboard.  It  looked  like  a  high-handed  proceed- 
ing; but  it  was  really  a  case  of  legitimate  self-defense. 
You  can't  breathe  dead  hippo  waking,  sleeping,  and 
eating,  and  at  the  same  time  keep  your  precarious  grip 
on  existence.  Besides  that,  they  had  given  them  every 
week  three  pieces  of  brass  wire,  each  about  nine  inches 
long;  and  the  theory  was  they  were  to  buy  their  pro- 
visions with  that  currency  in  river-side  villages.  You 
can  see  how  that  worked.  There  were  either  no  villages, 
or  the  people  were  hostile,  or  the  director,  who  like  the 
rest  of  us  fed  out  of  tins,  with  an  occasional  old  he-goat 
tiirovrn  in,  didn't  want  to  stop  the  steamer  for  some  more 
or  less  recondite  reason.  So,  unless  they  swallowed  the 
wire  itself,  or  made  loops  of  it  to  snare  the  fishes  vrith, 
I  don't  see  what  good  their  extravagant  salary  could  be 
to  them.  I  must  say  it  was  paid  with  a  regularity  worthy 
of  a  large  and  honorable  trading  company.  For  the 
rest,  the  only  thing  to  eat — though  it  didn't  look  eat- 
able in  the  least — I  saw  in  their  possession  v,as  a  few 
lumps  of  some  stuff  like  half-cooked  dough,  of  a  dirty 
lavender  color,  they  kept  wrapped  in  leaves,  and  now  and 
r   118  1 


1 1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

then  swallowed  a  piece  of,  but  so  small  that  it  seemed 
done  more  for  the  looks  of  the  thing  than  for  anj^  seri- 
ous purpose  of  sustenance.  Why  in  the  name  of  ail  the 
gnawing  devils  of  hunger  they  didn't  go  for  us — they 
were  thirty  to  five — and  have  a  good  tuck  in  for  once, 
amazes  me  nov/  when  I  think  of  it.  They  were  big 
powerful  men,  with  not  much  capacity  to  weigh  the  con- 
sequences, v/ith  courage,  with  strength,  even  yet,  though 
their  skins  were  no  longer  glossy  and  their  nluscies  no 
longer  hard.  And  I  saw  that  something  restraining,  one 
of  those  human  secrets  that  baffle  probability,  liad  come 
nto  play  there.  I  looked  at  them  with  a  swift  quicken- 
ing of  interest — not  because  it  occurred  to  me  I  might 
be  eaten  by  them  before  very  long,  though  I  own  to  you 
that  just  then  I  perceived — in  a  new  light,  as  it  were — 
I  ow  uiivvholesome  the  pilgrims  looked,  and  I  hoped,  3^es, 
I  positively  hoped,  that  my  aspect  was  not  so — what  shall 
I  sv.y? — so — unappetizing:  a  touch  of  fantastic  vanity 
^vhich  fitted  well  with  the  dream-sensation  that  pervaded 
all  my  days  at  that  time.  Perhaps  I  had  a  little  fever 
too.  One  can't  live  with  one's  finger  everlastingly  on 
one's  pulse.  I  had  often  '  a  little  fever,'  or  a  little  touch 
of  other  things — the  playful  paw-strokes  of  the  wilder- 
ness, the  preliminary  trifling  before  the  more  sferious 
onslaught  which  came  in  due  course.  Yes;  I  looked  at 
them  as  you  would  on  any  human  being,  with  a  curiosity 
of  their  impulses,  motives,  capacities,  weaknesses,  when 
brought  to  the  test  of  an  inexorable  physical  necessity. 
Restraint!  What  possible  restraint.^  Was  it  supersti- 
tion, disgust,  patience,  fear — or  some  kind  of  primitive 

I  [  119  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

'.onor?  No  fear  can  stand  up  to  hunger,  no  patience 
can  wear  it  out,  disgust  simply  does  not  exist  where 
hunger  is ;  and  as  to  superstition,  behefs,  and  what  you 
may  call  principles,  they  arc  less  than  chaff  in  a  breeze. 
Don't  you  know  the  devilry  of  hngering  starvation,  its 
exasperating  torment,  its  black  thoughts,  its  somber  and 
brooding  ferocity?  Well,  I  do.  It  takes  a  man  aii  his 
hiborn  strength  to  fight  hunger  properly.  It's  really 
easier  to  face  bereavement,  dishonor,  and  the  perdition 
of  one's  soul — than  this  kind  of  prolonged  hunger.  Sad,  1 
but  true.  And  these  chaps  too  had  no  earthly  reason 
for  any  kind  of  scruple.  Restraint !  I  would  just  as 
soon  have  expected  restraint  from  a  hyena  prowling 
amongst  the  corpses  of  a  battlefield.  But  there  wa.s  the 
fact  facing  me — the  fact  dazzling,  to  be  seen,  like  the 
foam  on  the  depths  of  the  sea,  like  a  ripple  on  an  un- 
fathomable enigma,  a  mystery  greater — when  I  thought 
of  it- — than  the  curious,  inexplicable  note  of  desperate 
grief  in  this  savage  clamor  that  had  swept  b}^  us  on  the 
river-bank,  behind  the  blind  whiteness  of  the  fog. 

"  Tvro  pilgrims  were  quarreling  in  hurried  whispers 
as  to  wliich  bank.  *  Left.'  *  No,  no;  how  can  you? 
Right,  right,  of  course.'  '  It  is  very  serious,'  said  the 
manager's  voice  behind  me ;  '  I  would  be  desolated  if 
anything  should  happen  to  Mr.  Kurtz  before  we  came 
up.'  I  looked  at  him,  and  had  not  the  slightest  doubt 
he  was  sincere.  He  was  just  the  kind  of  man  who  would 
wish  to  preserve  appearances.  That  was  his  restraint. 
But  when  he  muttered  something  about  going  on  at  once, 
I  did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  answer  iiira.  I  knew. 
f   1^0  J 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

md  he  knew,  that  it  was  impossible.  Were  we  to  let  go 
3ur  hold  of  the  bottom,  we  would  be  absolutely  in  the 
air — in  space.  We  wouldn't  be  able  to  tell  where  we 
nxre  going  to — whether  up  or  down  stream,  or  across 
— till  we  fetched  against  one  bank  or  the  other,-  and 
then  we  wouldn't  know  at  first  which  it  was.  '  course 
[  made  no  move.  I  had  no  mind  for  a  smash-up.  You 
couldn't  imagine  a  more  deadly  place  for  a  shipwreck. 
Whether  drowned  at  once  or  not,  we  were  sure  to  perish 
speedily  in  one  way  or  another.  '  I  authorize  you  to 
take  all  the  risks,'  he  said,  after  a  short  silence.  '  I  refuse 
to  take  any,'  I  said  shortly;  which  was  just  the  answer 
le  expected,  though  its  tone  might  have  surprised  him. 
'  Well,  I  must  defer  to  your  judgment.  You  are  cap- 
tain,' he  said,  with  marked  civility.  I  turned  my  shoul- 
der to  him  in  sign  of  my  appreciation,  and  looked  into 
the  fog.  How  long  would  it  last  ?  It  vras  the  most  hope- 
less look-out.  The  approach  to  this  Kurtz  grubbing 
for  ivory  in  the  wretched  bush  was  beset  by  as  many 
dangers  as  though  he  had  been  an  enchanted  princess 
sleeping  in  a  fabulous  castle.  '  Will  they  attack,  do  you 
f:hink.'^  '  asked  the  m.anager,  in  a  confidential  tone. 

"  I  did  not  think  they  would  attack,  for  several  obvious 
reasons.  The  thick  fog  Vv-as  one.  If  they  left  the  bank 
in  their  canoes  they  would  get  lost  in  it,  as  we  would 
be  if  we  attempted  to  move.  Still,  I  had  also  judged  the 
jungle  of  both  banks  quite  impenetrable — and  yet  e^^es 
were  in  it,  ej^es  that  had  seen  us.  The  river-side  bushes 
were  certainly  very  thick;  but  the  undergrowth  behind 
was  evidently  penetrable.     However,  during  the  short 

[  121  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

lift  I  had  seen  no  canoes  anywhere  in  the  reach — cer~ 
iainly  not  abreast  of  the  steamer.  But  what  made  the 
idea  of  attack  inconceivable  to  me  was  the  nature  of  the 
noise — of  tlie  cries  we  had  heard.  They  had  not  tlie 
fierce  character  boding  of  immediate  hostile  intention. 
Unexpected,  udld,  and  violent  as  they  had  been,  they  h:id 
given  me  an  irresistible  impression  of  sorrow.  'Hie 
glimpse  of  th^  steamboat  had  for  some  reason  filled  those 
savages  with  unrestrained  grief.  The  danger,  if  any, 
I  expounded,  was  from  our  proximity  to  a  great  liu- 
man  passion  let  loose.  Even  extreme  grief  may  ulti- 
mately vent  itself  in  violence — but  more  generally  takes 
the  form  of  apathy.    ... 

"  You  should  have  seen  the  pilgrims  stare !  They  liad 
no  heart  to  grm,  or  even  to  revile  me ;  but  I  believe  tht'y 
thought  me  gone  mad — with  fright,  maybe.  I  delivered 
a  regular  lecture.  Mj  dear  boys,  it  was  no  good  bother- 
ing. Keep  a  look-out .?  Well,  you  may  guess  I  watched 
the  fog  for  the  signs  of  lifting  as  a  cat  watches  a  mou.sc ; 
but  for  anything  else  our  eye?  were  of  no  more  use  to 
us  than  if  we  had  been  buried  miles  deep  in  a  heap  jf 
cotton-wool.  It  felt  like  it  too — choking,  warm,  stifling. 
Besides,  all  I  said,  though  it  sounded  extravagant,  '-'.as 
absolutely  true  to  fact.  What  we  afterwards  alluded 
to  as  an  attack  was  really  an  attempt  at  repulse.  Tlie 
action  was  very  far  from  being  aggressive — it  was  not 
even  defensive,  in  the  usual  sense:  it  was  undertaken' 
under  the  stress  of  desperation,  and  in  its  essence  was 
purely  protective. 

"  It  developed  itself,  I  should  say,  two  hours  after  the 

[  122  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

fog  lifted,  and  its  comniencement  was  at  a  spot,  roughly 
speaking,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  below  Kurtz's  station. 
Wc  had  just  floundered  and  flopped  round  a  bend,  vdien 
I  saw  an  islet,  a  mere  grassy  hummock  of  bright  green, 
in  the  middle  of  the  stream.  It  was  the  only  thing  of 
the  kind;  but  as  we  opened  the  reach  more,  I  perceived 
it  was  the  head  of  a  long  sandbank,  or  rather  of  a  chain 
of  shallow  patches  stretching  down  the  middle  of  the 
river.  They  were  discolored,  just  awash,  and  the  whole 
lot  was  seen  just  under  the  water,  exactly  as  a  man's 
b<ickbone  is  seen  running  dov^n  the  middle  of  his  back 
.under  the  skin.  Now,  f.s  far  as  I  did  see,  I  could  go 
to  the  rischt  or  to  the  left  of  this.  I  didn't  know  either 
channel,  of  course.  The  banks  looked  pretty  well  alike, 
the  depth  appeared  the  same ;  but  as  I  had  been  informed 
the  station  was  on  the  west  side,  I  naturally  headed  foi" 
the  western  passage. 

"  No  sooner  had  we  fairly  entered  it  than  I  became 
aware  it  was  much  narrov/er  than  I  had  supposed.  To 
the  left  of  us  there  was  the  long  uninterrupted  shoal, 
and  to  the  right  a  high,  steep  bank  heavily  overgrown 
with  bushes.  Above  the  bush  the  trees  stood  in  serried 
ranks.  The  twigs  overhung  the  current  thickly,  and 
from  distance  to  distance  a  large  limb  of  some  tree  pro- 
jected rigidly  over  the  stream.  It  was  then  well  on  in 
the  afternoon,  the  face  of  the  forest  was  gloom}^  and 
a  broad  strip  of  shadow  had  already  fallen  on  the  water. 
In  this  shadow  we  steamed  up — very  slowly,  as  you  may 
imagine.  I  sheered  her  well  inshore — the  water  being 
deepest  near  the  bank,  as  the  sounding-pole  informed  me.. 
[   12S   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

^'  One  of  mj  hungry  and  forbearing  friends  was  sound- 
ing in  the  bows  just  below  me.  ^I'liis  steamboat  v/as 
exactly  like  a  decked  scow.  On  the  deck  there  were  two 
little  teak-wood  houses,  Avith  doors  and  windows.  The 
boiler  was  in  the  fore-end,  and  the  machinery  right 
astern.  Over  the  whole  there  was  a  light  roof,  supported 
on  stanchions.  The  funnel  projected  through  that  roof, 
and  in  front  of  the  funnel  a  small  cabin  built  of  light 
planks  served  for  a  pilot-house.  It  contained  a  couch, 
tvro  camp-stools,  a  loaded  Martini-Henry  leaning  in  one 
corner,  a  tiny  table,  and  the  steering-wheel.  It  had  a 
wide  door  in  front  and  a  broad  shutter  at  each  side.  All 
these  were  always  thrown  open,  of  course.  I  spent  my 
days  perched  up  there  on  the  extreme  fore-end  of  that 
roof,  before  the  door.  At  night  I  slept,  or  tried  to,  on 
the  couch.  An  athletic  black  belonging  to  some  coast 
tribe,  and  educated  by  my  poor  predecessor,  was  the 
helmsman.  He  sported  a  pair  of  brass  earrings,  wore  a 
blue  cloth  wrapper  from  the  waist  to  the  ankles,  and 
thought  all  the  world  of  himself.  He  was  the  most 
unstable  kind  of  fool  I  had  ever  seen.  He  steered  with 
no  end  of  a  swagger  while  you  were  by;  but  if  he  lost 
sight  of  you,  he  became  instantly  the  pre}^  of  an  abject 
funk,  and  would  let  that  cripple  of  a  steamboat  get  the 
npper  hand  of  him  in  a  minute. 

"  I  was  looking  down  at  the  sounding-pole,  and  feel- 
ing much  annoyed  to  see  at  each  try  a  little  more  of  it 
stick  out  of  that  river,  when  I  saw  my  poleman  give  up 
the  business  suddenly,  and  stretch  himself  flat  on 
the  deck,  without  even  taking  the  trouble  to  haul  his 

[   124  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

:  pole  in.  He  kept  hold  on  it  though,  and  it  trailed  Ib 
the  v^ater.  At  the  same  time  the  fireman,  whom  I  could 
also  see  below  me,  sat  down  abruptly  before  his  furnace 

||  and  ducked  his  head.  I  was  amazed.  Then  I  had  to  look 
at  the  river  mighty  quick,  because  there  was  a  snag  in 
the  fairway.     Sticks,  little  sticks,  were  flying  about — 

I  thick :  they  were  whizzing  before  my  nose,  dropping  be- 
low me,  striking  behind  m.e  against  my  pilot-house.  All 
this  time  the  river,  the  shore,  the  woods,  were  very  quiet — 
perfectly  quiet.  I  could  only  hear  the  heavy  splashing 
thump  of  the  stern-wheel  and  the  patter  of  these  things. 
We  cleared  the  snag  clumsily.  Arrows,  by  Jove !  We 
were  being  shot  at !  I  stepped  in  quickly  to  close  the 
shutter  on  the  land  side.  That  fool-helmsman,  his  hands 
on  the  spokes,  was  lifting  his  knees  high,  stamping  his 
feet,  champing  his  mouth,  like  a  reined-in  horse.  Con- 
found him !     And  we  were  staggering  within  ten  feet  of 

i  the  bank.     I  had  to  lean  right  out  to  swing  the  heavy 

■  shutter,  and  I  saw  a  face  amongst  the*  leaves  on  the 
level  with  my  own,  looking  at  me  very  fierce  and  steady ; 
and  then  suddenly,  as  though  a  veil  had  been  removed 
from  my  eyes,  I  made  out,  deep  in  the  tangled  gloom, 
naked  breasts,  arms,  legs,  glaring  eyes, — the  bush  was 
swarming  with  human  limbs  in  movement,  glistening,  of 
bronze  color.  The  twigs  shook,  swayed,  and  rustled,  the 
arrows  flew  out  of  them,  and  then  the  shutter  came  to. 
'  Steer  her  straight,'  I  said  to  the  helmsman.  He  held 
his  head  rigid,  face  forward;  but  his  eyes  rolled,  he 
kept  on  lifting  and  setting  down  his  feet  gently,  his 
mouth  foamed  a  little.     '  Keep  quiet ! '  I  said  in  a  f ury.^ 

[   125  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

I  might  just  as  well  have  ordered  a  tree  not  to  sway 
in  the  wind.  I  darted  out.  Below  me  there  was  a  great 
scufHe  of  feet  on  the  iron  deck ;  confused  exclamations ; 
ii  voice  screamed,  '  Can  you  turn  back.^  '  I  caught  sight 
of  a  V-shaped  ripple  on  the  water  ahead.  What.'^  An- 
■other  snag!  A  fusillade  burst  out  under  my  feet.  The 
pilgrims  had  opened  with  their  Winchesters,  and  were 
simply  squirting  lead  into  that  bush.  A  deuce  of  a 
lot  of  smoke  came  up  and  drove  slowly  forward.  I 
swore  at  it.  Now  I  couldn't  see  the  ripple  or  the  snag 
either.  I  stood  in  the  doorway-,  peering,  and  the  arrows 
'Came  in  swarms.  They  might  have  been  poisoned,  but 
they  looked  as  though  they  wouldn't  kill  a  cat.  The 
bush  began  to  howl.  Our  wood-cutters  raised  a  warlike 
whoop;  the  report  of  a  rifle  just  at  my  back  deafened 
me.  I  glanced  over  m}'  shoulder,  and  the  pilot-house 
was  yet  full  of  noise  and  smoke  when  I  made  a  dash 
at  the  wheel.  The  fool-nigger  had  dropped  everything, 
to  throw  the  shutter  open  and  let  off  that  Martini-Henry. 
He  stood  before  the  wide  opening,  glaring,  and  I  yelled 
at  him  to  come  back,  v/hile  I  straightened  the  sudden 
twist  out  of  that  steamboat.  There  was  no  room  to 
turn  even  if  I  had  wanted  to,  the  snag  was  somewhere 
very  near  ahead  in  that  confounded  smoke,  tlierc 
was  no  time  to  lose,  so  I  just  crowded  her  into  tl-.e 
bank — right  into  the  bank,  where  I  knew  the  water 
was  deep. 

"  We  tore  slowly  along  the  overhanging  bushes  in  a 
whirl  of  broken  twigs  and  flying  leaves.  The  fusillade 
fbelow  stopped  short,  as  I  liad   foreseen  it  would  when 

[  126  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

tlio  squirts  got  empty.  I  threw  my  head  back  to  a  glint- 
ing whizz  that  traversed  the  pilot-house,  in  at  one  shutter- 
hole  and  out  at  the  other.  Looking  past  that  mad  helms- 
iiian,  who  was  shaking  the  empty  rifle  and  yelling  at 
the  shore,  I  saw  vague  forms  of  men  running  bent  double, 
leaping,  gliding,  distinct,  incomplete,  evanescent.  Some- 
thing big  appeared  in  the  air  before  the  shutter,  the 
rifle  went  overboard,  and  the  man  stepped  back  swiftly^ 
looked  at  me  over  his  shoulder  in  an  extraordinary,  pro- 
found, familiar  manner,  and  fell  upon  my  feet.  The 
side  of  his  head  hit  the  wheel  twice,  and  the  end  of  what 
appeared  a  long  cane  clattered  round  and  knocked  over 
a  little  camp-stool.  It  looked  as  though  after  v^rench- 
ing  that  thing  from  somebody  ashore  he  had  lost  liis 
balance  in  the  eff'ort.  The  thin  smoke  had  blown  away^ 
we  were  clear  of  the  snag,  and  looking  ahead  I  could  see 
that  in  another  hundred  yards  or  so  I  would  be  free  to 
sheer  off,  away  from  the  bank ;  but  my  feet  felt  so  very 
warm  and  wet  that  I  had  to  look  down.  The  man  had 
rolled  on  his  back  and  stared  straight  up  at  me;  both 
hk  hands  clutched  that  cane.  It  was  the  shaft  of  a 
spear  that,  either  thrown  or  lunged  through  the  open- 
ing, had  caught  him  in  the  side  just  below  the  ribs;  the 
blade  had  gone  in  out  of  sight,  after  making  a  frightful 
gash ;  my  shoes  were  full ;  a  pool  of  blood  lay  very  still, 
gleaming  dark-red  under  the  wheel;  his  eyes  shone  with 
an  amazing  luster.  The  fusillade  burst  out  again.  He 
looked  at  me  anxiously,  gripping  the  spear  like  some- 
thing precious,  with  an  air  of  being  afraid  I  would  try 
to  take  it  away  from  him.  I  had  to  make  an  effort  to 
[  12T  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

free  my  eyes  from  his  gaze  and  attend  to  the  steering. 
With  one  hand  I  felt  above  my  head  for  the  Hne  of  the 
steam-whistle,  and  jerked  out  screech  after  screech  hur- 
riedly. The  tumult  of  angry  and  warlike  yells  was 
checked  instantly,  and  then  from  the  depths  of  the  woods 
went  out  such  a  tremulous  and  prolonged  wail  of  mourn- 
ful fear  and  utter  despair  as  may  be  imagined  to  follow 
the  flight  of  the  last  hope  from  the  earth.  There  w^as 
a  great  commotion  in  the  bush;  the  shower  of  arrows 
stopped,  a  few  dropping  shots  rang  out  sharply — then 
silence,  in  which  the  languid  beat  of  the  stern-wheel 
came  plainly  to  my  ears.  I  put  the  helm  hard  a-star- 
board  at  the  moment  when  the  pilgrim  in  pink  pyjamas, 
very  hot  and  agitated,  appeared  in  the  doorwa^^     '  The 

manager  sends  me '  he  began  in  an  official  tone,  and 

stopped  short.  '  Good  God ! '  he  said,  glaring  at  the 
w^ounded  man. 

"  We  two  whites  stood  over  him,  and  his  lustrous  and 
inquiring  glance  enveloped  us  both.  I  declare  it  looked 
as  though  he  would  presently  put  to  us  some  question  in 
an  understandable  language;  but  he  died  without  utter- 
ing a  sound,  without  moving  a  limb,  without  twitching 
a  muscle.  Only  in  the  very  last  moment,  as  though  in 
response  to  some  sign  we  could  not  see,  to  some  whisper 
we  could  not  hear,  he  frowned  heavily,  and  that  frown 
gave  to  his  black  death-mask  an  inconceivably  somber, 
brooding,  and  menacing  expression.  The  luster  of  in- 
quiring glance  faded  swiftly  into  vacant  glassiness.  '  Can 
you  steer?  '  I  asked  the  agent  eagerly.  He  looked  very 
dubious;  but  I  made  a  grab  at  his  arm,  and  he  under- 
[   12S  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

stood  at  once  I  meant  him  to  steer  whether  or  no.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  was  morbidly  anxious  to  change 
my  shoes  and  socks.  *  He  is  dead,'  murmured  the  fel- 
low, immensely  impressed.  *  No  doubt  about  it,'  said  I, 
tugging  like  mad  at  the  shoe-laces.  '  And,  by  the  way, 
I  suppose  Mr.  Kurtz  is  dead  as  well  by  this  time.' 

"  For  the  moment  that  was  the  dominant  thought. 
There  was  a  sense  of  extreme  disappointment,  as  though 
I  had  found  out  I  had  been  striving  after  something  al- 
together without  a  substance.  I  couldn't  have  been  more 
disgusted  if  I  had  traveled  all  this  way  for  the  sole 
purpose  of  talking  with  Mr.  Kurtz.  Talking  with. 
.  .  .  I  flung  one  shoe  overboard,  and  became  aware 
that  that  was  exactly  what  I  had  been  looking  forward 
to — a  talk  with  Kurtz.  I  made  the  strange  discovery 
that  I  had  never  imagined  him  as  doing,  you  know,  but 
as  discoursing.  I  didn't  say  to  myself,  '  Now  I  will 
never  see  him,'  or  '  Now  I  will  never  shake  him  by  the 
hand,'  but,  '  Now  I  will  never  hear  him.'  The  man  pre' 
sented  himself  as  a  voice.  Not  of  course  that  I  did  not 
connect  him  with  some  sort  of  action.  Hadn't  I  been 
told  in  all  the  tones  of  jealousy  and  admiration  that  he 
had  collected,  bartered,  swindled,  or  stolen  more  ivory 
than  all  the  other  agents  together.?  That  was  not  the 
point.  The  point  was  in  his  being  a  gifted  creature,  and 
that  of  all  his  gifts  the  one  that  stood  out  pre- 
eminently, that  carried  with  it  a  sense  of  real  presence, 
was  his  ability  to  talk,  his  words— the  gift  of  expression, 
the  bewildering,  the  illuminating,  the  most  exalted  and 
the  most  contemptible,  the  pulsating  stream  ^of  b'ght,  or 

f    129    1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 
^le  deccitftil  flow  from  the  heart  of  an    impenetrable 

**  The  other  shoe  went  fijing  unto  the  devil-god  of  that 
iriver,  I  thought.  By  Jove!  it's  all  over.  We  are  tco 
late;  lie  has  vanished — the  gift  has  vanished,  by  means 
rf  some  spear,  arrow,  or  club.  I  will  never  hear  that 
«diap  speak  after  all, — and  my  sorrow  had  a  startling 
■extravagance  of  emotion,  even  such  as  I  had  noticed  in 
^m  howling  sorrow  of  these  savages  in  the  bush.  I 
(Booldn't  have  felt  more  of  lonely  desolation  somehow, 
hitd  I  Ijeen  robbed  of  a  belief  or  had  missed  my  destiny 
in  life,  .  .  .  Wh}^  do  you  sigh  in  this  beastly  wa>^ 
swmnjdbody?      Absurd?       Well,    absurd.       Good    Lord! 

'miastn't  a  man   ever Here,    give    me    some    to- 

l>acco."   .    .    . 

There  was  a  pause  of  profound  stillness,  then  a  match 
fbred,  and  Marlow's  lean  face  appeared,  worn,  hollow, 
wiHi  downward  folds  and  dropped  eyelids,  with  an  aspect 
of  concentrated  attention  ;  and  as  he  took  vigorous  draws 
at  Ms  pipe,  it  seemed  to  retreat  and  advance  out  cf  the 
«ogM  in  the  regular  flicker  of  the  tiny  flame.  The  ipatch 
^wient  out. 

*•  Absurd!"  he  cried.  "This  is  the  worst  of  trying 
ibo  tell.  .  .  .  Here  you  all  are,  each  moored  with  two 
good  addresses,  like  a  hulk  with  two  anchors,  a  butcher 
iQ^ond  one  comer,  a  policeman  round  another,  excellent 
aqppetites,  and  temperature  normal — you  hear — nor.nal 
fsma  yearns  end  to  year's  end.  And  you  say,  Absurd! 
Mssard  be — exploded!  Absurd!  My  dear  boys,  what 
:you  expect  from  a  man  who  out  of  sheer  nervous- 
{   130  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ncss  had  just  flung  overboard  a  pair  of  new  sh^MS^. 
No\T  I  think  of  it,  it  is  amazing  I  did  not  shed  tesiiB^. 
I  am,  upon  the  whole,  proud  of  my  fortitude.  I  was. 
cut  to  the  quick  at  the  idea  of  having  lost  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  listening  to  the  gifted  Kurtz.  Of  couiser 
I  was  wrong.  The  privilege  was  waiting  for  me«  Oife 
yes,  I  heard  more  than  enough.  x\nd  I  was  right,  tpo>. 
A  voice.  He  was  very  little  more  than  a  voice. 
I  heard — him — it — this  voice — other  voices — all  of 
were  so  little  more  than  voices — and  the  memory  of  that; 
time  itself  lingers  around  me,  impalpable,  like  a  dyiiag; 
vibration  of  one  immense  jabber,  silly,  atrocious,  sordM^ 
savage,  or  simply  mean,  without  any  kind  of  seBSCc, 
Voices,  voices — even  the  girl  herself — now '* 

He  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  I  laid  the  ghost  of  his  gifts  at  last  with  a  lie/'  fee- 
began  suddenly.  "Girl!  What?  Did  I  mention  sl 
girl?  Oh,  she  is  out  of  it — completely.  They — the: 
women  I  mean — ^are  out  of  it — should  be  out  of  it-  We 
must  help  them  to  stay  in  that  beautiful  world  of  tlhek- 
own,  lest  ours  gets  worse.  OIi,  she  had  to  be  out  of  it. 
^ou  should  have  heard  the  disinterred  body  of  Mr* 
Kurtz  sa^dng,  '  My  Intended,'  You  would  have  per- 
ceived directly  then  how  completely  she  was  out  of  it. 
And  the  lofty  frontal  bone  of  Mr.  Kurtz!  They  sajr 
the  hair  goes  on  growing  sometimes,  but  this — ^afe--— ~ 
specimen,  was  impressiveh^  bald.  The  wilderness  lirf 
patted  him  on  the  head,  and,  behold,  it  was  like  a  fmM 
' — an  ivory  ball:  it  had  caressed  him,  and — loi- — ^he  fiadi 
withered;  it  had  taken  him,  loved  him,  embrace 

[  131  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

got  into  his  veins,  consumed  his  flesh,  and  sealed  his 
soul  to  its  own  by  the  inconceivable  ceremonies  of  some 
devilish  initiation.  He  v.as  its  spoiled  and  pampered 
favorite.  Ivory  .^  I  should  think  so.  Heaps  of  it, 
stacks  of  it.  The  old  mud  shanty  was  bursting  with  it. 
You  would  think  there  v,as  not  a  single  tusk  left  either 
above  or  below  the  ground  in  the  whole  country.  '  Mostly 
fossil,'  the  manager  had  remarked  disparagingly.  It 
was  no  more  fossil  than  I  am;  but  they  call  it  fossil 
when  it  is  dug  up.  It  appears  these  niggers  do  bury 
the  tusks  sometimes — but  evidently  they  couldn't  bury 
this  parcel  deep  enough  to  save  the  gifted  Mr.  Kurtz 
from  his  fate.  We  filled  the  steamboat  with  it,  and  had 
to  pile  a  lot  on  the  deck.  Thus  he  could  see  and  enjoy 
as  long  as  he  could  see,  because  the  appreciation  of 
this  favor  had  remained  with  him  to  the  last.  You  should 
have  heard  him  say,  '  My  ivory.'     Oh  yes,  I  heard  him. 

'  My  Intended,  my  ivor^-,  my  station,  my  river,  my ' 

everything  belonged  to  him.  It  made  me  hold  my  breath 
in  expectation  of  hearing  the  wilderness  burst  into  a 
prodigious  peal  of  laughter  that  would  shake  the  fixed 
stars  in  their  places.  Everything  belonged  to  him — but 
that  was  a  trifle.  The  thing  was  to  know  what  he  be- 
longed to,  how  many  powers  of  darkness  claimed  him 
for  their  own.  That  was  the  reflection  that  made  you 
creepy  all  over.  It  was  impossible — it  v/as  not  good  for 
one  either — trying  to  imagine.  He  had  taken  a  high 
seat  amongst  the  devils  of  the  land — I  mean  literally. 
You  can't  understand.  How  could  you.'^ — vrith  solid 
pavement  under  your  feet,  surrounded  by  kind  neigh- 
[   13£  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

bors  re£xdy  to  cheer  you  or  to  fall  on  you,  stepping 
delicately  betv/een  the  butcher  and  the  policeman,  in  the 
holy  terror  of  scandal  and  gallows  and  lunatic  asylums 
— how  can  you  imagine  what  particular  region  of  the 
first  ages  a  man's  untrammeled  feet  may  take  him  into 
by  the  way  of  solitude — utter  solitude  without  a  police- 
man— by  the  way  of  silence — utter  silence,  where  no 
warning  voice  of  a  kind  neighbor  can  be  heard  whisper- 
ing of  public  opinion?  These  little  things  make  all  the 
great  difference.  When  they  are  gone  you  must  fall 
back  upon  your  own  innate  strength,  upon  your  own 
capacity  for  faithfulness.  Of  course  you  may  be  too 
much  of  a  fool  to  go  wrong — too  dull  even  to  know  you 
are  being  assaulted  by  the  powers  of  darkness.  I  take 
it,  no  fool  ever  made  a  bargain  for  his  soul  with  the 
devil:  the  fool  is  too  much  of  a  fool,  or  the  devil  too 
much  of  a  devil — I  don't  know  which.  Or  you  may  be 
such  a  thunderingly  exalted  creature  as  to  be  altogether 
deaf  and  blind  to  anything  but  heavenly  sights  and 
sounds.  Then  the  earth  for  you  is  only  a  standing  place 
— and  whether  to  be  like  this  is  your  loss  or  your  gain  I 
won't  pretend  to  say.  But  most  of  us  are  neither  one 
nor  the  other.  The  earth  for  us  is  a  place  to  live  in, 
where  we  must  put  up  with  sights,  with  sounds,  with 
smells  too,  by  Jove ! — breathe  dead  hippo,  so  to  speak, 
and  not  be  contaminated.  And  there,  don't  you  see? 
your  strength  comes  in,  the  faith  in  your  ability  for  the 
digging  of  unostentatious  holes  to  bury  the  stuff  in — 
your  power  of  devotion,  not  to  yourself,  but  to  an 
obscure,  back-breaking  business.  And  that's  difficult 
[   133  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

lOioiigh.  Mind,  I  am  not  trying  to  excuse  or  even  ex* 
iplam — ^I  am  trying  to  account  to  myself  for — for — Mr. 
Kirtz — ^for  the  shade  of  Mr.  Kurtz.  This  initiated 
^wxaiiili  from  the  back  of  Nowhere  honored  me  with  its 
^jmsmng  confidence  before  it  vanished  altogether.  This 
wais  because  it  could  speak  English  to  me.  The  origiial 
MxtYtz  had  been  educated  partly  in  England,  and — as 
hs  was  good  enough  to  say  himself — his  sympathies  were 
3X1  the  right  place.  His  mother  was  half -English,  his 
father  was  half -French.  All  Europe  contributed  to  the 
mtakmg  of  Kurtz;  and  by-and-by  I  learned  that,  nsost 
aqppropriateiy,  the  International  Society  for  the  Sup- 
pnassion  of  Savage  Customs  had  intrusted  him  with  tlie 
mxatking  of  a  report,  for  its  future  guidance.  And  he 
had  written  it  too.  I've  seen  it.  I've  read  it.  It  was 
'Silfoquent,  vibrating  with  eloquence,  but  too  high-strung, 
$  tJiink.  Seventeen  pages  of  close  writing  he  had  found 
-ajme  for!  But  this  must  have  been  before  his — let  us 
-saty — nerves,  went  wrong,  and  caused  him  to  preside  at 
^ceartain  midnight  dances  ending  with  unspeakable  rites, 
which — as  far  as  I  reluctantly  gathered  from  what  I 
lieard  at  various  times — were  offered  up  to  him — do  you 
Tonderstand  .'* — ^to  Mr.  Kurtz  Iiiraself.  But  it  Avas  a  beau- 
liful  piece  of  writing.  The  opening  paragraph,  how- 
•cver,  in  the  light  of  later  information,  strikes  me  now 
^^&  ominous.  He  began  with  tlie  argument  that  we  whites, 
from  the  point  of  development  we  had  arrived  at,  '  must 
aw^xssarily  appear  to  them  [savages]  in  the  nature  of 
scpematural  beings — we  approach  them  with  the  might 
sifs  of  a.  deity,'  and  so  on,  and  so  on.     '  By  the  simple 

L  1^^  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

exercise  of  our  will  wc  can  exert  a  power  far  ^, 
practically  unbounded,'  &c.,  &c.  From  that  paivii  Ime-" 
soared  and  took  me  with  him.  The  peroration  was  Kjaa^- 
nificent,  though  difficult  to  remember,  you  know..  Ife 
gave  me  the  notion  of  an  exotic  Immensity  ruled  fcgs- 
an  august  Benevolence.  It  made  me  tingle  with  e»- 
thusiasm.  This  was  the  unbounded  power  of  eloqii!enc& 
- — of  words — of  burning  noble  words»  There  were  ncto 
practical  hints  to  interrupt  the  magic  current  of  phrass^ 
unless  a  kind  of  note  at  the  foot  of  the  last  pagcv, 
scrawled  evidently  much  later,  in  an  unsteady  Ixaacj^ 
may  be  regarded  as  the  exposition  of  a  method.  It 
was  yery  simple,  and  at  the  end  of  that  moving  appeal 
to  every  altruistic  sentiment  it  blazed  at  you,  lumirMCBX'*. 
and  terrifying,  like  a  flash  of  lightning  in  a  serene  sky:: 
'  Exterminate  all  the  brutes ! '  The  curious  pari  yxms^ 
that  he  had  apparently  forgotten  all  about  that  inatht- 
able  postscriptum,  because,  later  on,  when  he  in  a  se'ai?a& 
came  to  himself,  he  repeatedly  entreated  me  to  take- 
good  care  of  '  my  pamphlet'  (he  called  it),  as  it  wai^ 
sure  to  have  in  the  future  a  good  influence  upon  hc^ 
career.  I  had  full  information  about  all  these  thiog^^ 
and,  besides,  as  it  turned  out,  I  was  to  have  the  cart^  €jF 
his  memory.  I've  done  enough  for  it  to  give  me  thc' 
indisputable  right  to  lay  it,  if  I  choose,  for  an  ever&xst- 
ing  rest  in  the  dust-bin  of  progress,  amongst  all  th& 
sweepings  and,  figuratively  speaking,  all  the  dead  caSs 
of  civilization.  But  then,  you  sec,  I  can't  choose^  Ife 
wocL't  be  forgotten.  Whatever  he  was,  he  was  not  cqier- 
mon.     He  had  the  power  to  charm  or  frighten  riad&^ 

C  135  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

mentary  souls  into  an  aggravated  witch-dance  i.i  his 
honor;  he  could  also  fill  the  small  souls  of  the  pilgrims 
with  bitter  misgivings:  he  had  one  devoted  friend  at 
least,  and  he  had  conquered  one  soul  in  the  v.orld  that 
was  neitiier  rudimentary  nor  tainted  with  self-seeking. 
No;  I  can't  forget  him,  though  I  am  not  prepared  to 
affirm  the  fellow  was  exactly  worth  the  life  we  lost  in 
getting  to  him.  I  missed  my  late  helmsman  awfully, — 
I  missed  liim  even  wliile  his  body  was  still  lying  in  the 
pilot-house.  Perhaps  you  vrill  think  it  passing  strange 
this  regret  for  a  savage  who  was  no  more  account  than 
a  grain  of  sand  in  a  black  Sahara.  Well,  don't  you  see, 
he  Irnd  done  something,  he  had  steered;  for  montlis  I 
had  him  at  my  back — a  help — an  instrument.  It  was 
a  kind  of  partnership.  He  steered  for  mie — I  had  to 
look  after  him,  I  worried  about  his  deficiencies,  and  tlius 
a  subtle  bond  had  been  created,  of  which  I  only  became 
aware  when  it  was  suddenly  broken.  And  the  intimate 
profundity  of  that  look  he  gave  me  when  he  received 
his  hurt  remains  to  this  day  in  my  memory — like  a  claim 
of  distant  kinship  affirmed  in  a  supreme  moment. 

*'  Poor  fool !  If  he  had  only  left  tha,t  shutter  alone. 
He  had  no  restraint,  no  restraint — just  like  Kurtz — a 
tree  swayed  by  the  wind.  As  soon  as  I  had  put  on  a  dry 
pair  of  shppers,  I  dragged  him  out,  after  first  jerking 
the  spear  out  of  his  side,  which  operation  I  confess  I 
performed  with  my  eyes  shut  tight.  His  heels  leaped 
together  over  the  little  door-step;  his  shoulders  were 
pressed  to  my  breast;  I  hugged  him  from  behind  des- 
perately. Oh!  he  was  heavy,  heavy;  heavier  than  any 
r   136  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

man  on  earth,  I  should  imagine.  Then  without  more 
ado  I  tipped  him  overboard.  The  current  snatched  him 
as  though  he  had  been  a  wisp  of  grass,  and  I  saw  the 
body  roll  over  twice  before  I  lost  sight  of  it  for  ever. 
Ail  the  pilgrims  and  the  manager  were  then  congregated 
on  the  awning-deck  about  the  pilot-house,  chattering  at 
each  other  like  a  flock  of  excited  magpies,  and  there  was 
a  scandalized  murmur  at  my  heartless  promptitude. 
What  they  wanted  to  keep  that  body  hanging  about  for 
I  can't  guess.  Embalm  it,  maybe.  But  I  had  also  heard 
another,  and  a  very  ominous,  murmur  on  the  deck  below. 
My  friends  the  wood-cutters  were  likewise  scandalized, 
and  with  a  better  show  of  reason — though  I  admit  that 
the  reason  itself  was  quite  inadmissible.  Oh,  quite!  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  that  if  my  late  helmsman  was  to 
be  eaten,  the  fishes  alone  should  have  him.  He  had 
been  a  very  second-rate  helmsman  while  alive,  but  now 
he  was  dead  he  might  have  become  a  first-class  tempta- 
tion, and  possibly  cause  some  startling  trouble.  Besides, 
I  was  anxious  to  take  the  wheel,  the  man  m  pink  pyjamas 
showing  himself  a  hopeless  duffer  at  the  business. 

"  This  I  did  directly  the  simple  funeral  was  over.  \y  e 
were  going  half-speed,  keeping  right  in  the  middle  of 
the  stream,  and  I  listened  to  the  talk  about  me.  They 
had  given  up  Kurtz,  they  had  given  up  the  station; 
Kurtz  was  dead,  and  the  station  had  been  burnt — and 
so  on — and  so  on.  The  red-haired  pilgrim  was  beside 
himself  with  the  thought  that  at  least  this  poor  Kurtz 
had  been  properly  revenged.  '  Say  1  We  must  have 
made  a  glorious  slaughter  of  them  in  the  bush.  Eh.? 
[  137  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

What  do  jou  think?  Say?  '  He  positively  danced,  the 
bloodthirsty  little  gingery  beggar.  And  he  had  nearly 
fainted  when  he  saw  the  wounded  man !  I  could  not 
help  saying,  '  You  made  a  glorious  lot  of  smoke,  any- 
how.' I  had  seen,  from  the  way  the  tops  of  the  bushes 
rustled  r.nd  flew,  that  almost  all  the  shots  had  gone  too 
high.  You  can't  hit  anything  unless  you  take  aim  and 
fire  from  the  shoulder;  but  these  chaps  fired  from  the 
hip  with  their  c^^es  shut.  The  retreat,  I  maintained — 
and  I  was  right — was  caused  by  the  screeching  of  the 
steam-whistle.  Upon  this  they  forgot  Kurtz,  and  begran 
to  howl  at  me  with  indignant  protests. 

'*  The  manager  stood  by  the  wheel  murmuring  confi- 
dentially about  the  necessity  of  getting  well  away  down 
I  he  river  before  dark  at  all  events,  when  I  saw  in  the 
distance  a  clearing  on  the  river-side  and  the  outlines  of 
some  sort  of  building.  'What's  this.?'  I  asked.  He 
clapped  his  hands  in  wonder.  *  The  station ! '  he  cried. 
I  edged  in  at  once,  still  going  half-speed. 

"  Through  my  glasses  I  saw  the  slope  of  a  hill  inter- 
spersed with  rare  trees  and  perfectly  free  from  under- 
growth. A  long  decaying  building  on  the  summit  was 
half  buried  in  the  high  grass ;  the  large  holes  in  the 
peaked  roof  gaped  black  from  afar;  the  jungle  and 
t!ie  woods  made  a  backgi'ound.  There  was  no  inclosure 
or  fence  of  any  kind ;  but  there  had  been  one  apparently, 
for  near  the  house  half-a-dozen  slim  posts  remained  in 
a  row,  roughly  trimmed,  and  with  their  upper  ends  orna- 
mented with  round  carved  balls.  The  rails,  or  what- 
ever  there   had    been    between,    had   disappeared.      Of 

[   138  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

course  the  forest  surrounded  all  that.  The  river-baok 
was  clear,  and  on  the  water-side  I  saw  a  white  man  under 
a  hat  like  a  cart-wheel  beckoning  persistently  with  his 
whole  arm.  Examining  the  edge  of  the  forest  above  and 
below,  I  was  almost  certain  I  could  see  movements — ■ 
human  forms  gliding  here  and  there.  I  steamed  past 
prudently,  then  stopped  the  engines  and  let  her  drift 
down.  The  man  on  the  shore  began  to  shout,  urging  us 
to  land.  '  We  have  been  attacked,'  screamed  the  man- 
ager. '  I  know — I  know.  It's  all  right,'  yelled  back  the 
other,  as  cheerful  as  you  please.  '  Come  along.  It's  ail 
right,     I  am  glad.' 

"  His  aspect  reminded  me  of  something  I  had  seen — 
smnething  funny  I  had  seen  somewhere.  As  I  maneuvered 
to  get  alongside,  I  was  asking  myself,  '  What  does  this 
f eUow  look  like  ?  '  Suddenly  I  got  it.  He  looked  like  a 
harlequin.  His  clothes  had  been  made  of  some  stuff 
that  was  brown  holland  probably,  but  it  was  covered  with 
patches  all  over,  v/ith  bright  patches,  blue,  red,  and  yel- 
low,— patches  on  the  back,  patclies  on  front,  patches  on 
elbows,  on  knees;  colored  binding  round  his  jacket,  scar- 
let edging  at  the  bottom  of  his  trousers;  and  the  sun- 
shine made  him  look  extremely  ga^^  and  wonderfully  neat 
withal,  because  you  could  see  how  beautifully  all  this 
patching  had  been  done.  A  beardless,  boyish  face,  very 
fair,  no  features  to  speak  of,  nose  peeling,  little  blue 
eyes,  smiles  and  frowns  chasing  each  other  over  that 
open  countenance  like  sunshine  and  shadow  on  a  wind- 
swept plain.  '  Look  out,  captain  ! '  he  cried ;  '  there's  a 
aaag    lodged  in    here    last    night.'     What!     Another 

[  139  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

snag?  I  confess  I  swore  shamefully.  I  had  nearly  holed 
my  cripple,  to  finish  off  that  charming  trip.  The  harle- 
quin on  the  bank  turned  his  little  pug  nose  up  to  me. 
'You  English.?'  he  asked,  all  smiles.  'Are  you.?'  I 
shouted  from  the  wheel.  The  smiles  vanished,  and  he 
shook  his  head  as  if  sorry  for  my  disappointment.  Then 
he  brightened  up.  '  Never  mind ! '  he  cried  encourag- 
ingly. '  Are  we  in  time.?  '  I  asked.  '  He  is  up  there,' 
he  replied,  with  a  toss  of  the  head  up  the  hill,  and 
becoming  gloomy  all  of  a  sudden.  His  face  was  like 
the  autumn  sky,  overcast  one  moment  and  bright  the 
next. 

"  When  the  manager,  escorted  by  the  pilgrims,  all  of 
them  armed  to  the  teeth,  had  gone  to  the  house,  this 
chap  came  on  board.  '  I  say,  I  don't  like  this.  These 
natives  are  in  the  bush,'  I  said.  He  assured  me  earnestly 
it  was  all  right.  '  They  are  simple  people,'  he  added ; 
'  v/ell,  I  am  glad  you  came.  It  took  me  all  my  time  to 
keep  them  off.'  '  But  3^ou  said  it  was  all  right,'  I  cried. 
'  Oh,  they  meant  no  harm,'  he  said ;  and  as  I  stared  he 
corrected  himself,  '  Not  exactly.'  Then  vivaciously, 
'  My  faith,  your  pilot-house  wants  a  clean  up ! '  In  the 
next  breath  he  advised  me  to  keep  enough  steam  on  the 
boiler  to  blow  the  whistle  in  case  of  any  trouble.  '  One 
good  screech  will  do  more  for  you  than  all  your  rifles. 
They  are  simple  people,'  he  repeated.  He  rattled  away 
at  such  a  rate  he  quite  overwhelmed  me.  He  seemed  to 
be  trying  to  make  up  for  lots  of  silence,  and  actually 
hinted,  laughing,  that  such  was  the  case.  '  Don't  you 
talk  with  Mr.  Kurtz .? '  I  said.  '  You  don't  talk  with 
[  140  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

that  man — you  listen  to  him,'  he  exclaimed  with  severe 

exaltation.     '  But  now '     He  waved  his  arm,  and  in 

the  twinkling  of  an  eye  was  in  the  uttermost  depths  of 
despondency.  In  a  moment  he  came  up  again  with  a 
jump,  possessed  himself  of  both  my  hands,  shook  them 
continuously,  vdiile  he  gabbled :  '  Brother  sailor  .  .  . 
honor  .  .  .  pleasure  .,  .  .  delight  .  .  .  introduce 
myself  .  .  .  Russian  .  .  .  son  of  an  arch-priest 
.  .  .  Government  of  Tambov  .  .  .  What  ?  Tobacco  i 
English  tobacco;  the  excellent  English  tobacco!  Now, 
that's  brotherly.  Smoke.?  Where's  a  sailor  that  does 
not  smoke  .f^  ' 

"  The  pipe  soothed  him,  and  gradually  I  made  out  he 
had  run  away  from  school,  had  gone  to  sea  in  a  Russian 
ship;  ran  away  again;  served  some  time  in  English 
diips ;  was  now  reconciled  with  the  arch-priest.  He  made 
a  point  of  that.  '  But  when  one  is  young  one  must  see 
things,  gather  experience,  ideas;  enlarge  the  mind.' 
*  Here ! '  I  interrupted.  '  You  can  never  tell !  Here  I 
have  met  Mr.  Kurtz,'  he  said,  youthfully  solemn  and 
reproachful.  I  held  my  tongue  after  that.  It  appears 
he  had  persuaded  a  Dutch  trading-house  on  the  coast 
to  fit  him  out  with  stores  and  goods,  and  had  started  for 
the  interior  with  a  light  heart,  and  no  more  idea  of  what 
would  happen  to  him  than  a  baby.  He  had  been  wan- 
dering about  that  river  for  nearly  two  years  alone,  cut 
off  from  everybody  and  everything.  '  I  am  not  so  3^oung 
as  I  look.  I  am  twenty-five,'  he  said.  '  At  first  old  Van 
Shu  J :  en  would  tell  me  to  go  to  the  devil,'  he  narrated 
with  keen  enjoyment;  'but  I  stuck  to  him,  and  talked 
[   141    ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

and  talked,  till  at  last  he  got  afraid  I  would  talk  the 
hind-leg  off  his  favorite  dog,  so  he  gave  me  some  cheap 
things  and  a  few  guns,  and  told  me  he  hoped  he  would 
never  see  my  face  again.  Good  old  Dutchman,  Van 
Shuyten.  I've  sent  him  one  small  lot  of  ivory  a  year 
ago,  so  that  he  can't  call  me  a  little  thief  when  I  get 
back.  I  hope  he  got  it.  And  for  the  rest  I  don't  care. 
I  had  some  wood  stacked  for  you.  That  was  mv  old 
Louse.     Did  you  see  ?  ' 

"  I  gave  him  Towson's  book.  He  made  as  though  he 
would  kiss  me,  but  restrained  himself.  '  The  only  book 
I  had  left,  and  I  thought  I  had  lost  it,'  he  said,  looking 
at  it  ecstatically.  '  So  many  accidents  happen  to  a  man 
going  about  alone,  you  know.  Canoes  get  upset  some- 
times— and  sometimes  you've  goc  to  clear  out  so  quick 
when  the  people  get  angry.'     He  thumbed  the  pages. 

*  You  made  notes  in  Russian?'  I  asked.      He  nodded. 

*  I  thought  they  were  written  in  ciplier,'  I  said.  He 
laughed,  then  became  serious.  '  I  had  lots  of  trouble 
to  keep  these  people  off,'  he  said.  '  Did  they  want  to 
kill  you.^  '  I  asked.  '  Oli  no ! '  he  cried,  and  checked  him- 
self. '  Why  did  they  attack  us  ?  '  I  pursued.  He  hesi- 
tated, then  said  shamefacedly,  '  They  don't  want  him  to 
go.'  'Don't  they.^'  I  said,  curiously.  He  nodded  a 
nod  full  of  mystery  and  wisdom.     '  I  tell  you,'  he  cried, 

*  this  man  has  enlarged  my  mind.'  He  opened  his  arms 
vide,  staring  at  me  with  his  little  blue  eyes  that  were 
perfectly  round." 


[   1^2  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 


III 

*'  I  looked  at  him,  lost  in  astonishment.  There  he 
"vv&s  before  me,  in  motley,  as  though  he  had  abscoiKicd 
from  a  troupe  of  mimes,  enthusiastic,  fabulous.  His 
very  existence  was  improbable,  inexplicable,  and  alto- 
gether bewildering.  He  was  an  insoluble  problem.  It 
was  inconceivable  how  he  had  existed,  how  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  so  far,  how  he  had  managed  to  rcma^in 
— ^why  he  did  not  instantly  disappear.  '  I  went  a  little 
farther,'  he  said,  '  then  still  a  httle  farther — till  I  had 
gone  so  far  that  I  don't  know  how  I'll  ever  get  back. 
Never  mind.  Plenty  time.  I  can  manage.  You  take 
Kurtz  away  quick — quick — I  tell  you.'  The  glamiOiir  of 
youth  enveloped  his  particolored  rags,  his  destitution,  his 
loneliness,  the  essential  desolation  of  his  futile  wander- 
ings. For  montl^ts — for  years — his  life  hadn't  bec»n 
worth  a  day's  purchase;  and  there  he  was  gallantly, 
thoughtlessly  alive,  to  all  appearance  indestructible  solely 
by  the  virtue  of  his  few  years  and  of  his  unreflecting 
andaicitj.  I  was  seduced  into  something  like  admiration 
— like  envy.  Glamour  urged  him  on,  glamour  kept  him 
unscathed.  He  surely  wanted  nothing  from  the  v/ilder- 
ness  but  space  to  brea.the  in  and  to  push  en  through. 
His  need  was  to  exist,  and  to  move  onwards  at  the  great-, 
-est  possible  risk,  and  with  a  maximum  of  privation.  If 
the  absolutely  pure,  uncalculating,  unpractical  spirit  of 
adventure  had  ever  ruled  a  human  being,  it  ruled  this 
be-patched  youth.     I  almost  envied  him  the  possession 

[   143  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

of  this  modest  and  clear  flame.  It  seemed  to  have  con- 
sumed all  thought  of  self  so  completely,  that,  even  while 
he  was  talking  to  you,  you  forgot  that  it  was  he — the 
man  before  your  eyes — who  had  gone  through  these 
tilings.-  I  did  not  envy  him  his  devotion  to  Kurtz, 
though.  He  had  not  meditated  over  it.  It  came  to  him, 
and  he  accepted  it  with  a  sort  of  eager  fatalism.  I  must 
say  that  to  me  it  appeared  about  the  most  dangerous 
thing  in  every  way  he  had  come  upon  so  far. 

"  They  had  come  together  unavoidably,  like  two  ships 
becalmed  near  each  other,  and  lay  rubbing  sides  at  last. 
I  suppose  Kurtz  wanted  an  audience,  because  on  a  cer- 
tain occasion,  when  encamped  in  the  forest,  they  had 
talked  all  night,  or  more  probably  Kurtz  had  talked. 
'  We  talked  of  everything,'  he  said,  quite  transported 
at  the  recollection.  '  I  forgot  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  sleep.  The  night  did  not  seem  to  last  an  hour.  Every- 
thing !  Everything !  .  .  .Of  love  too.'  '  Ah,  he 
talked  to  you  of  love ! '  I  said,  much  amused.  '  It  isn't 
what  you  tliink,'  he  cried,  almost  passionately.  '  It  was 
in  general.     He  made  me  see  things — things.' 

"  He  threw  his  arms  up.  We  were  on  deck  at  the  time, 
and  the  headman  of  my  wood-cutters,  lounging  near  by, 
turned  upon  him  his  heavy  and  glittering  eyes.  I  looked 
around,  and  I  don't  know  why,  but  I  assure  you  that 
never,  never  before,  did  this  land,  this  river,  this  jungle 
the  \Qry  arch  of  this  blazing  sky,  appear  to  me  so  hope- 
less and  so  dark,  so  impenetrable  to  human  thought,  so 
pitiless  to  hum.an  weakness.  '  And,  ever  since,  you  have 
been  with  him,  of  course  ?  '  I  said. 
[  144  ] 


ART    OF    DARKNESS 

"  On  tne  Contrary.  It  appears  their  intercourse  had 
been  very  much  broken  by  various  causes.  He  had,  as 
he  informed  me  proudly,  managed  to  nurse  Kurtz 
through  two  illnesses  (he  alluded  to  it  as  you  would  to 
some  risky  feat),  but  as  a  rule  Kurtz  wandered  alone, 
far  in  the  depths  of  the  forest.  '  Very  often  coming  to 
this  station,  I  had  to  wait  days  and  days  before  he  would 
turn  up,'  he  said.  '  Ah,  it  was  worth  waiting  for ! — 
sometimes.'  '  What  was  he  doing  .^  exploring  or  what.'^  ' 
I  asked.  '  Oh  j^es,  of  course ;  '  he  had  discovered  lots  of 
villages,  a  lake  too — ^he  did  not  know  exactly  in  what 
direction;  it  was  dangerous  to  inquire  too  much — but 
mostly  his  expeditions  had  been  for  ivory.  '  But  he  had 
no  goods  to  trade  with  by  that  time,'  I  objected.  '  There's 
a  good  lot  of  cartridges  left  even  yet,'  he  answered,  look- 
ing away.  '  To  speak  plainly,  he  raided  the  country,' 
I  said.  He  nodded.  '  Not  alone,  surely ! '  He  muttered 
som.ething  about  the  villages  round  that  lake.  '  Kurtz 
got  the  tribe  to  follow  him,  did  he  .^  '  I  suggested.  He 
fidgeted  a  little.  '  They  adored  him,'  he  said.  The  tone 
of  these  words  was  so  extraordinary  that  I  looked  at 
him  searchingly.  It  was  curious  to  see  his  mingled  eager- 
ness and  reluctance  to  speak  of  Kurtz.  The  man  filled 
his  life,  occupied  his  thoughts,  swayed  his  emotions. 
'  What  can  you  expect  ?  '  he  burst  out ;  '  he  came  to  them 
with  thunder  and  lightning,  you  know — and  they  had 
never  seen  anything  hkc  it — and  very  terrible.  He  could 
be  very  terrible.  You  can't  judge  INIr.  Kurtz  as  you 
Would  an  ordinary  man.  No,  no,  no!  Now — just  to 
give  you  an  idea — I  don't  mind  telling  you,  he  wanted 
[   145  ] 


HEAIiT    OF    DARKN^gg 

to  shoot  me  too  one  day — but  I  don't  jaage  nun.' 
'  Shoot  you! '  I  cried.  '  What  for.?  '  '  Well,  I  had  a 
stiiall  lot  of  ivory  the  chief  of  that  village  near  my  house 
gave  me.  You  see  I  used  to  shoot  game  for  them.  Well, 
]:e  wanted  it,  and  wouldn't  hear  reason.  He  declared 
]ie  v.ould  shoot  me  unless  I  gave  him  the  ivory  and  then 
cleared  out  of  the  country,  because  he  could  do  so,  and 
had  a  fancj^  for  it,  and  there  was  nothing  on  earth  to 
prevent  him  killing  whom,  he  jolly  v>xll  pleased.  And  it 
was  true  too.  I  gave  him  the  ivor3^  What  did  I  care! 
But  I  didn't  clear  out.  No,  no.  I  couldn't  leave  him. 
I  had  to  be  careful,  of  course,  till  we  got  friendly  again 
for  a  time.  He  had  his  second  illness  then.  Afterwards 
I  had  to  keep  out  of  the  way;  but  I  dida't  mind.  He 
was  living  for  the  most  part  in  those  villages  on  the 
lake.  When  he  came  down  to  the  river,  sometimes  he 
would  take  to  me,  and  sometimes  it  was  better  for  me 
to  be  careful.  This  man  suffered  too  much.  He  hated 
all  thij,  and  somehow  he  couldn't  get  away.  When  I  had 
a  chance  I  begged  him  to  try  and  leave  while  there  was 
time;  I  offered  to  go  back  with  him.  And  he  would 
say  yes,  and  then  lie  would  remain ;  go  off  on  another 
ivory  hunt ;  disappear  for  weeks ;  forget  himself  amongst 
these  people — forget  himself — you  know.'  '  Why  !  he's 
mad,'  I  said.  He  protested  indignantly.  Mr.  Kurtz 
couldn't  be  mad.  If  I  had  heard  him  talk,  only  two 
days  ago,  I  wouldn't  dare  hint  at  such  a  thing.  .  .  . 
I  had  taken  up  my  binocuhirs  while  we  talked  and 
was  looking  at  the  shore,  sweeping  the  limit  of  the 
forest  at  each  side  and  at  the  back  of  the  house.     The 

[    ^^G   ] 


ART    OF    DARKNESS 

'cbx^a.  .  ^  -of  there  being  people  in  that  bush,  so  silent, 
so  quiet — as  silent  and  quiet  as  the  ruined  house  on  iiie 
hill — made  me  uneasy.  There  was  no  sign  on  the  f;ice 
of  nature  of  this  amazing  tale  that  was  not  so  much 
told  as  suggested  to  me  in  desolate  exclamations,  coir.- 
pleted  by  shrugs,  in  interrupted  phrases,  in  hints  ending 
in  deep  sighs.  The  woods  were  unmoved,  like  a  mask — 
heavy,  like  the  closed  door  of  a  prison — they  looked  v.  itii 
their  air  of  hidden  knowledge,  of  patient  expectation, 
of  unapproachable  silence.  The  Russian  was  explaining 
to  me  that  it  was  onl}''  lately  that  Mr.  Kurtz  had  come 
down  to  the  river,  bringing  along  with  him  all  the  fight- 
ing men  of  that  lake  tribe.  He  had  been  absent  for 
several  months — getting  himself  adored,  I  suppose — and 
had  come  down  unexpectedly,  with  the  intention  to  all 
appearance  of  making  a  raid  either  across  the  river  or 
down  stream.  Evidently  the  appetite  for  more  ivory 
had  got  the  better  of  the — what  shall  I  say? — less  ma- 
terial aspirations.  However  he  had  got  much  worse 
suddenly.  '  I  heard  he  was  lying  helpless,  and  so  I  ca.me 
up — took  my  chance,'  said  the  Russian.  '  Oh,  he  is 
bad,  ver\^  bad.'  I  directed  my  glass  to  the  house.  There 
were  no  signs  of  life,  but  there  was  the  ruined  roof, 
the  long  mud  wall  peeping  above  the  grass,  with  tlirce 
little  square  windovr-holes,  no  two  of  the  same  size;  all 
this  brought  within  reach  of  m}'  hand,  as  it  were.  And 
then  I  made  a  brusque  movement,  and  one  of  the  remain- 
ing posts  of  that  vanished  fence  leaped  up  in  the  field 
of  my  glass.  You  remember  I  told  you  I  had  been 
struck  at  .*-he  distance  by  certain  attempts  at  ornamenta- 

r  147 1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

tion,  rather  remarkable  in  the  ruinous  aspect  of  the  place. 
No^v  I  had  suddenly  a  nearer  view,  and  its  first  result 
was  to  make  me  throw  my  head  back  as  if  before  a  blovr. 
Then  I  went  carefully  from  post  to  post  with  my  glass, 
and  I  saw  my  mistake.  These  round  knobs  were  not 
ornamental  but  symbolic;  they  were  expressive  and 
puzzling,  striking  and  disturbing — food  for  thought  and 
also  for  the  vultures  if  there  had  been  any  looking  down 
from  the  sky ;  but  at  all  events  for  such  ants  as  were 
industrious  enough  to  ascend  the  pole.  They  would 
have  been  even  more  impressive,  those  heads  on  the 
stakes,  if  their  faces  had  not  been  turned  to  the  house. 
Only  one,  the  first  I  had  made  out,  was  facing  my  way. 
I  vvas  not  so  shocked  as  you  may  think.  The  start  back 
I  had  given  was  really  nothing  but  a  movement  of  sur- 
prise. I  had  expected  to  see  a  knob  of  wood  there,  you 
knovr.  I  returned  deliberately  to  the  first  I  had  seen — 
and  there  it  was,  black,  dried,  sunken,  with  closed  eye- 
lids,— a  head  that  seemed  to  sleep  at  the  top  of  that  pole, 
and,  with  the  shrunken  dry  lips  showing  a  narrow  white 
line  of  the  teeth,  was  smiling  too,  smiling  continuously 
at  some  endless  and  jocose  dream  of  that  eternal  slumber. 
"  I  am  not  disclosing  any  trade  secrets.  In  fact  the 
manager  said  afterwards  that  Mr.  Kurtz's  methods  liad 
ruined  the  district.  I  have  no  opinion  on  that  point, 
but  I  want  you  clearly  to  understand  that  there  was 
nothing  exactly  profitable  in  these  heads  being  tliere. 
They  only  showed  that  Mr.  Kurtz  lacked  restraint  in  the 
gratification  of  his  various  lusts,  that  there  was  some- 
thing wanting  in  him — some  small  matter  wliich,  when 
[  148  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

the  pressing  need  arose,  could  not  be  found  under  his 
magnificent  eloquence.  Whether  he  knew  of  this  de- 
ficiency himself  I  can't  say.  I  think  the  knowledge  came 
to  him  at  last — only  at  the  very  last.  But  the  wilder- 
ness had  found  him  out  earh^,  and  had  taken  on  him 
a  terrible  vengeance  for  the  fantastic  invasion.  I  think 
it  had  whispered  to  him  things  about  himself  which  he 
did  not  know,  things  of  which  he  had  no  conception  till 
he  took  counsel  with  this  great  solitude — and  the  whisper 
had  proved  irresistibly  fascinating.  It  echoed  loudly 
within  him  because  he  was  hollow  at  the  core.  ...  I 
put  down  the  glass,  and  the  head  that  had  appeared 
near  enough  to  be  spoken  to  seemed  at  once  to  have 
leaped  away  from  me  into  inaccessible  distance. 

"  The  admirer  of  Mr.  Kurtz  was  a  bit  crestfallen.  In 
a  hurried,  indistinct  voice  he  began  to  assure  me  he  had 
not  dared  to  take  these— say,  symbols — down.  He  was 
not  afraid  of  the  natives ;  they  would  not  stir  till  Mr. 
Kurtz  gave  the  word.  His  ascendency  was  extraor- 
dinary. The  camps  of  these  people  surrounded  the 
place,  and  the  chiefs  came  every  day  to  see  him.  They 
would  crawl.  .  .  .  '  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  of 
the  ceremonies  used  when  approaching  Mr.  Kurtz,'  I 
shouted.  Curious,  this  feeling  that  came  over  me  that 
such  details  would  be  more  intolerable  than  those  heads 
dr3ing  on  the  stakes  under  ^Ir.  Kurtz's  windows.  After 
all,  that  was  only  a  savage  sight,  while  I  seemed  at  one 
bound  to  have  been  transported  into  some  lightiess 
region  of  subtle  horrors,  where  pure,  uncomplicated 
savagery  was  a  positive  relief,  being  something  that  had 

[  149  ] 


HEAilT    OF    DARKNESS 

a  right  to  exist — obviously — in  the  sunshine.  The 
young  man  looked  at  me  with  surprise.  I  suppose  it 
dJd  not  occur  to  him  that  ]Mr.  Kurtz  was  no  idol  of  mine. 
Ho  forgot  I  hadn't  heard  any  of  these  splendid  mono- 
logues on,  what  was  it?  on  love,  justice,  conduct  of  life 
• — or  what  not.  If  it  had  come  to  crawling  before  Mr- 
Kurtz,  he  crawled  as  nuich  as  the  veriest  savage  of  them 
all.  I  had  no  idea  of  the  conditions,  he  said:  these  heads 
were  the  heads  of  rebels.  I  shocked  him  excessively  by 
lauo-hinfy.  Rebels !  Vv^hat  would  be  the  next  definition 
I  was  to  hear?  There  had  been  enemies,  criminals,  work- 
ers— and  these  were  rebels.  Those  rebellious  heads  looked 
very  subdued  to  me  on  their  sticks.  '  You  don't  know  how 
such  a  life  tries  a  man  like  Kurtz,'  cried  Kurtz's  last 
disciple.  'Well,  and  you?'  I  said.  *I!  I!  I  am  a 
simple  man.  I  have  no  great  thoughts.  I  want  nothing 
from  anj^body.  How  can  you  compare  me  to  .  .  .  ?  ' 
His  feelings  were  too  much  for  speech,  and  suddenly  he 
broke  down.  '  I  don't  understand,'  he  groaned.  '  I've 
been  doing  my  best  to  keep  him  fdi^^e,  and  that's  enough. 
I  had  no  hand  in  all  this.  I  have  no  abilities.  There 
h?usn't  been  a  drop  of  medicine  or  a  mouthful  of  invalid 
food  for  months  here.  He  was  shamefully  abandoned. 
A  man  like  this,  with  such  ideas.  Shamefully ! 
Shamefully!  I — I — haven't  slept  for  the  '.tst  ten 
nights.    .     .    .' 

"  His  voice  lost  itself  in  the  calm  of  the  evening.  The 
long  shadows  of  the  forest  had  slipped  down  hill  while 
we  talked,  hiid  gone  far  beyond  the  ruined  hovel,  be- 
yond the  symbolic  row  of  stakes.     All  this  was  in  the 

r  150 1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

gloom,  while  we  down  there  were  yet  in  the  sunshine, 
and  the  stretch  of  the  river  abreast  of  the  clearing 
glittered  in  a  still  and  dazzling  splendor,  with  a  murky 
and  over-shadowed  bend  above  and  below.  Not  a  living 
soul  was  seen  on  the  shore.     The  bushes  did  not  rustle. 

"  Suddenly  round  the  corner  of  the  house  a  group  of 
men  appeared,  as  though  they  had  come  up  from  the 
ground.  They  waded  w^aist-deep  in  the  grass,  in  a 
compact  bod}^  bearing  an  improvised  stretcher  in  their 
midst.  Instantly,  in  the  emptiness  of  the  landscape,  a 
cry  arose  w^hose  shrillness  pierced  the  still  air  like  a  sharp 
arrow  flying  straight  to  the  very  heart  of  the  land ;  and, 
as  if  by  enchantment,  streams  of  human  beings— cf 
naked  human  beings — with  spears  in  their  hands,  with 
bows,  with  shields,  with  wild  glances  and  savage  move- 
ments, were  poured  into  the  clearing  by  the  dark-faced 
and  pensive  forest.  The  bushes  shook,  the  grass  swa3'cd 
for  a  time,  and  then  everything  stood  still  in  attentive 
immobility. 

*' '  Now,  if  he  does  not  say  the  right  thing  to  them  we 
are  all  done  for,'  said  the  Russian  at  mj^  elbov/.  Tlie 
knot  of  men  with  the  stretcher  had  stopped  too,  half -war 
to  the  steamer,  as  if  petrified.  I  saw  the  man  on  the 
stretcher  sit  up,  lank  and  with  an  uplifted  arm,  above 
the  shoulders  of  the  bearers.  '  Let  us  hope  that  the 
man  who  can  talk  so  well  of  love  in  general  will  find 
some  particular  reason  to  spare  us  this  time,'  I  said.  1 
resented  bitterly  the  absurd  danger  of  our  situation,  as 
if  to  be  at  the  mercy  of  that  atrocious  phantom  had 
been  a  dishonoring  necessity.     I  could  not  hear  a  sound, 

f  151  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

but  through  mj  glasses  I  saw  the  thin  arm  extended 
commandingly,  the  lower  jaw  moving,  the  eyes  of  that 
apparition  shining  darkly  far  in  its  bony  head  that 
nodded  with  grotesque  jerks.  Kurtz — Kurtz — that 
means  short  in  German — don't  it?  Well,  the  name  was 
as  true  as  everything  else  in  his  life — and  death.  He 
looked  at  least  seven  feet  long.  His  covering  had  fallen 
off,  and  his  body  emerged  from  it  pitiful  and  appalling 
as  from  a  winding-sheet.  I  could  see  the  cage  of  his 
ribs  all  astir,  the  bones  of  his  arm  waving.  It  was  as 
though  an  animated  image  of  death  carved  out  of  old 
ivory  had  been  shaking  its  hand  with  menaces  at  a 
motionless  crowd  of  men  made  of  dark  and  glittering 
bronze.  I  saw  him  open  his  mouth  wide — it  gave  him 
a  weirdly  voracious  aspect,  as  though  he  had  wanted  to 
swallow  all  the  air,  all  the  earth,  all  the  men  before  him. 
A  deep  voice  reached  me  faintl3\  He  must  have  been 
shouting.  He  fell  back  suddenly.  The  stretcher  shook 
as  the  bearers  staggered  forward  again,  and  almost  at 
the  same  time  I  noticed  that  the  crowd  of  savages  Avas 
vanishing  without  any  perceptible  movement  of  retreat, 
as  if  the  forest  that  had  ejected  these  beings  so"  suddenly 
had  drawn  them  in  again  as  the  breath  is  drawn  in  a 
long  aspiration. 

"  Some  of  the  pilgrims  behind  the  stretcher  carried  his 
arms — two  shot-guns,  a  heavy  rifle,  and  a  light  revolver- 
carbine — the  thunderbolts  of  that  pitiful  Jupiter.  The 
manager  bent  over  him  murmuring  as  he  walked  beside 
his  head.  They  laid  him  down  in  one  of  the  little  cabins 
• — ^just  a  room  for  a  bed-place  and  a  camp-stool  or  tv/o. 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

you  know.  We  had  brought  his  belated  correspcndence* 
and  a  lot  of  torn  envelopes  and  open  letters  littered  his 
bed.  His  hand  roamed  feebly  amongst  these  papers.  I 
was  struck  by  the  fire  of  his  ej^es  and  the  composed 
languor  of  his  expression.  It  was  not  so  much  the  ex- 
haustion of  disease.  He  did  not  seem  in  pain.  This 
shadow  looked  satiated  and  calm,  as  though  for  the 
moment  it  had  had  its  fill  of  all  the  emotions. 

"  He  rustled  one  of  the  letters,  and  looking  straight 
in  my  face  said,  '  I  am  glad.'  Somebody  had  been  writ- 
ing to  him  about  me.  These  special  recommendations 
were  turning  up  again.  The  volume  of  tone  he  emitted 
without  effort,  almost  without  the  trouble  of  moving  his 
lips,  amazed  me.  A  voice !  a  voice  1  It  was  grave,  pro- 
found, vibrating,  while  the  man  did  not  seem  capable 
of  a  whisper.  However,  he  had  enough  strength  in 
him — factitious  no  doubt — to  very  nearly  make  an  end 
of  us,  as  you  shall  hear  directly. 

"  The  manager  appeared  silently  in  the  doorwa.y ;  I 
stepped  out  at  once  and  he  drew  the  curtain  after  m.e. 
The  Russian,  eyed  curiously  by  the  pilgrims,  was  star- 
ing at  the  shore.     I  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance. 

"  Dark  human  shapes  could  be  made  out  in  the  distance, 
flitting  indistinctly  against  the  gloomy  border  of  the 
forest,  and  near  the  river  two  bronze  figures,  leaning 
on  tall  spears,  stood  in  the  sunlight  under  fantastic  head- 
dresses of  spotted  skins,  warlike  and  still  in  statuesque 
repose.  And  from  right  to  left  along  the  lighted  shore 
moved  a  wild  and  gorgeous  apparition  of  a  woman. 

"  She  walked  with  measured  steps,  draped  in  striped 
[  153  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

and  fringed  cloths,  treading  the  earth  proudly,  with  a 
slight  jingle  and  flash  of  barbarous  ornaments.  She 
carried  her  head  high ;  her  hair  was  done  in  the  sha])e 
of  a  helmet;  she  had  brass  leggings  to  the  knee,  hTiv^s 
wire  gauntlets  to  the  elbov/,  a  crimson  spot  on  her  tawny 
cheek,  innunicrablo  necklaces  of  glass  beads  on  her  neck ; 
bizarre  things,  cliarms,  gifts  of  witch-men,  that  huufr 
about  her,  glittered  and  trenibled  at  every  step.  She 
must  have  had  the  value  of  several  elephant  tusks  upon 
her.  She  was  savage  and  superb,  wild-eyed  and  magnifi- 
cent ;  there  was  something  ominous  and  stately  in  her 
deliberate  progress.  And  in  the  hush  that  had  fallen 
suddenly  upon  the  whole  sorrowful  land,  the  immeBse 
wilderness,  the  colossal  body  of  the  fecund  and  mjfc- 
terious  life  seemed  to  look  at  her,  pensive,  as  though  it 
-liad  been  looking  at  the  image  of  its  own  tenebrous  and 
passionate  soul. 

"  She  came  abreast  of  the  steamer,  stood  still,  and  faced 
us.  Her  long  shadow  fell  to  the  v/ater's  edge.  Her  face 
had  a  tragic  and  fierce  aspect  of  wild  sorrow  and  «f 
dumb  pain  mingled  with  the  fear  of  some  struggling, 
half-shaped  resolve.  She  stood  looking  at  us  without 
a  stir  and  like  the  wilderness  itself,  with  an  air  of  brood- 
ing over  an  inscrutable  purpose.  A  wliole  minute  passed, 
and  then  she  made  a  step  forward.  There  was  a  low 
jingle,  a  glint  of  yellow  metal,  a  sway  of  fringed  draper- 
ies, and  she  stopped  as  if  her  heart  had  failed  her.  The 
joung  fellow  by  my  side  growled.  The  pilgrims  mur- 
mured at  my  back.  She  looked  at  us  all  as  if  her  life 
iiad   depended   upon   the  unswerving   steadiness   of  her 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

glance.  Suddenly  she  opened  her  bared  arms  and  threw 
them  up  rigid  above  licr  head,  as  though  in  an  uncon- 
trollable desire  to  touch  the  skj,  and  at  the  same  time 
the  swift  shadows  darted  out  on  the  earth,  swept  around 
o]i  the  river,  gathering  the  steamer  into  a  shadowy  em- 
brace.    A  formidable  silence  hung  over  the  scene. 

"  She  turned  away  slowly,  walked  on,  following  the 
bank,  and  passed  into  the  bushes  to  the  left.  Once  only 
her  eyes  gleamed  back  at  us  in  the  dusk  of  the  thickets 
before  she  disappeared. 

"  '  If  she  had  offered  to  come  aboard  I  reallj'^  think  I 
would  have  tried  to  shoot  her,'  said  the  man  of  patches, 
nervously.  '  I  had  been  risking  my  life  every  day  for 
the  last  fortnight  to  keep  her  out  of  the  house.  She 
got  in  one  day  and  kicked  up  a  row  about  those  miser- 
able rags  I  picked  up  in  the  storeroom  to  mend  my  clothes 
with.  I  wasn  t  decent.  At  least  it  must  have  been  that, 
for  she  talked  like  a  furj^  to  Kurtz  for  an  hour,  point- 
ing at  me  now  and  then.  I  don't  understand  the  dia- 
lect of  this  tribe.  Luckily  for  mc,  I  fancy  Kurtz  felt 
too  ill  that  day  to  care,  or  there  would  have  been  mis- 
chief. I  don't  understand.  .  .  .  No — it's  too  much 
for  me.     Ah,  well,  it's  all  over  now.' 

"  At  this  moment  I  heard  Kurtz's  deep  voice  behind 
the  curtain, '  Save  me  ! — save  the  ivory,  you  mean.  Don't 
tell  me.  Save  me!  Why,  I've  had  to  save  you.  You 
arc  interrupting  my  plans  now.  Sick!  Sick!  Not  so 
sick  as  you  would  like  to  believe.  Never  mind.  I'll 
carry  my  ideas  out  yet — I  will  return.  I'll  show  you, 
what  can  be  done.  You  with  your  little  peddling  no- 
[  155  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

tions — you  are  interfering  with  me.  I  will  return. 
I  .  .  .' 
"  The  manager  came  out.  He  did  me  the  honor  to 
take  me  under  the  arm  and  lead  me  aside.  '  He  is  vary 
low,  very  low,'  he  said.  He  considered  it  nccessar}'  to 
sigh,  but  neglected  to  be  consistently  sorrowful.  '  We 
have  done  all  we  could  for  him — haven't  we.^  But  there 
is  no  disguising  the  fact,  Mr.  Kurtz  has  done  more 
harm  than  good  to  the  Company.  He  did  not  see  the 
time  was  not  ripe  for  vigorous  action.  Cautiously,  cau- 
tiously— that's  my  principle.  We  must  be  cautious  3'et. 
The  district  is  closed  to  us  for  a  time.  Deplorable  !  Upon 
the  whole,  the  trade  will  suffer.  I  don't  deny  there  is 
a  remarkable  quantity  of  ivory — mostly  fossil.  We  must 
save  it,  at  all  events — but  look  how  precarious  the  posi- 
tion is — and  why.^  Because  the  method  is  unsound.' 
'  Do  you,'  said  I,  looking  at  the  shore,  '  caii  it  "  unsound 
method".^'  'Without  doubt,'  he  exclaimed,  hotly. 
'  Don't  you  .^  '  .  .  .  '  No  method  at  all,'  I  murmured 
after  a  while.  '  Exactly,'  he  exulted.  '  I  anticipated 
this.  Shovrs  a  complete  want  of  judgment.  It  is  my 
duty  to  point  it  out  in  the  proper  quarter.'  '  Oh,'  said 
I,  *  that  fellow — what's  his  name.^ — the  brickmaker,  will 
make  a  readable  report  for  you.'  He  appeared  con- 
founded for  a  moment.  It  seemed  to  me  I  had  never 
breathed  an  atmosphere  so  vile,  and  I  turned  mentally 
to  Kurtz  for  relief — positively  for  relief.  '  Neverthe- 
less I  think  Mr.  Kurtz  is  a  remarkable  man,'  I  said  with 
emphasis.  He  started,  dropped  on  me  a  cold  heav}- 
glance,  said  very  quietly,  '  He  was^^  and  turn(?d  his  back 
[  156  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

on  me.  My  hour  of  favor  was  over;  I  found  myself 
lumped  along  with  Kurtz  as  a  partisan  of  methods  for 
which  the  time  was  not  ripe :  I  was  unsound !  Ah !  but  it 
was  something  to  have  at  least  a  choice  of  nightmares. 

"  I  had  turned  to  the  vdlderness  really,  not  to  x.Ir. 
Kurtz,  who,  I  was  ready  to  admit,  was  as  good  as  buried. 
And  for  a  m^oment  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  also  vrcre 
buried  in  a  vast  grave  full  of  unspeakable  secrets.  I 
felt  an  intolerable  weight  oppressing  my  breast,  tlie 
sm^ell  of  the  damp  earth,  the  unseen  presence  of  victorious 
corruption,  the  darkness  of  an  impenetrable  night.  .  .  . 
The  Russian  tapped  me  on  the  shoulder.  I  heard  him 
mumbling  and  stammering  something  about  '  brother 
seaman — couldn't  conceal — knowledge  of  matters  that 
would  affect  Mr.  Kurtz's  reputation.'  I  waited.  For 
him  evidently  Mr.  Kurtz  was  not  in  his  grave;  I  suspect 
that  for  him  Mr.  Kurtz  was  one  of  the  immortals. 
'  Well ! '  said  I  at  last,  '  speak  out.  As  it  happens,  I  am 
Mr.  Kurtz's  friend — in  a  wsij.^ 

"  He  stated  with  a  good  deal  of  formality  that  had 
we  not  been  '  of  the  same  profession,'  he  would  have 
kept  the  matter  to  himself  without  regard  to  conse- 
quences. '  He  suspected  there  was  an  active  ill-will  to- 
wards him  on  the  part  of  these  white    men    that ' 

*  You  are  right,'  I  said,  remembering  a  certain  conversa- 
tion I  had  overheard.  '  The  manager  thinks  you  ought 
to  be  hanged.'  He  showed  a  concern  at  this  intelligence 
which  amused  me  at  first.  '  I  had  better  get  out  of  the 
way  quietly,'  he  said,  earnestly.  '  I  can  do  no  more  for 
Kurtz   now,   and  they   would  soon    find    some    excuse. 

[   15^   ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

What's  to  stop  them?  Tliere's  a  military  post  three  Inm- 
dred  miles  from  here.'  '  Weil,  upon  my  word,'  said  I, 
'  perhaps  you  had  better  go  if  you  have  any  friends 
amongst  the  savages  near  by.'  '  Plenty,'  he  said.  '  They 
are  simple  people — and  I  want  nothing,  you  kno>\ 
He  stood  biting  his  lip,  then :  *  I  don't  want  any  harai  to 
happen  to  these  whites  here,  but  of  course  I  was  think- 
ing of  Mr.  Kurtz's  reputation — but  you  are  a  brother 

seaman   and '      '  All   right,'    said   I,   after   a    time. 

*  Mr.  Kurtz's  reputation  is  safe  with  me.'     I  did  not 
know  how  truly  I  spoke. 

"  He  informed  me,  lowering  his  voice,  that  it  wa** 
Kurtz  who  iiad  ordered  the  attack  to  be  made  on  tlic 
steamer.  '  He  hated  sometimes  the  idea  of  being  taken 
v*iway — and  then  again.  .  .  .  But  I  don't  understand 
these  matters.  I  am  a  simple  man.  He  thought  it  would 
scare  you  away — that  you  would  give  it  up,  tliinking 
him  dead.  I  could  not  stop  him.  Oh,  I  had  an  awful 
time  of  it  this  last  month.'  '  Ycry  well,'  I  said.  '  He  is 
all  right  now.'  '  Ye-e-es,'  he  muttered,  not  very  con- 
rinced  apparently.  '  Thanks,'  said  I ;  '  I  shall  keep  my 
eyes  open.'     '  But  quiet — eh?  '  he  urged,  anxiously.    *  It 

Avould  be  awful  for  his  reputation  if  anjd^ody  here ' 

I  promised  a  complete  discretion  with  great  gravity.  '  I 
have  a  canoe  and  three  black  fellows  waiting  not  very 
far.  I  am  off.  Could  you  give  me  a  few  Martini-Henry 
cartridges?'  I  could,  and  did,  with  proper  secrecy.  He 
helped  himself,  with  a  wink  at  me,  to  a  handful  of  my 
tobacco.  '  Between  sailors — you  know — good  English 
tobacco.'  At  the  door  of  the  pilot-house  he  turned  round 
[   J58  1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

- — '  I  say,  haven't  you  a  pair  of  shoes  you  could  spare?  * 
He  raised  one  leg.  '  Look.'  The  soles  were  tied  with 
knotted  strings  sandal- wise  under  his  bare  feet.  I  rooted 
out  an  old  pair,  at  which  he  looked  with  admiration  be- 
fore tucking  it  under  his  left  arm.  One  of  his  pocket? 
(bright  red)  was  bulging  with  cartridges,  from  the 
other  (dark  blue)  peeped  '  Towson's  Inquiry,'  &c.,  8zc. 
He  seemed  to  think  himself  excellently  well  equipped 
for  a  renewed  encounter  with  the  wilderness.  '  Ah  !  I'll 
never,  never  meet  such  a  man  again.  You  ought  to 
have  heard  him  recite  poetry — his  own  too  it  was,  he  told 
me.  Poetr}^ ! '  He  rolled  his  eyes  at  the  recollection 
of  these  delights.  '  Oh,  he  enlarged  my  mind ! '  '  Good- 
by,'  said  I.  He  shook  hands  and  vanished  in  the  night. 
Sometimes  I  ask  nn-self  whether  I  had  ever  really  seen 
him — whether  it  was  possible  to  meet  such  a  phenome- 
non 1    .     .    . 

"  When  I  woke  up  shortly  after  midnight  his  warning 
came  to  my  mind  with  its  hint  of  danger  that  seemed, 
in  the  starred  darkness,  real  enough  to  make  me  get 
up  for  the  purpose  of  having  a  look  round.  On  the 
hili  a  big  fire  burned,  illuminating  fitfully  a  crooked 
corner  of  the  station-house.  One  of  the  agents  with 
a  picket  of  a  few  of  our  blacks,  armed  for  the  purpose, 
was  keeping  guard  over  the  ivory;  but  deep  within  the 
forest,  red  gleams  that  wavered,  that  seemed  to  sink  and 
rise  from  the  ground  amongst  confused  columnar  shapes 
'  of  intense  blackness,  showed  the  exact  position  of  the 
camp  where  Mr.  Kurtz's  adorers  were  keeping  their  un- 
easy vigil.  The  monotonous  beating  of  a  big  drum  filled 
[   159  ] 


HEART    OF   DARKNESS 

the  air  with  muiPied  shocks  and  a  hngering  vibration.  \ 
steady  droning  sound  of  many  men  chanting  each  to 
himself  some  weird  incantation  came  out  from  the  black, 
flat  wall  of  the  woods  as  the  humming  of  bees  comes 
out  of  a  hive,  and  had  a  strange  narcotic  effect  upon 
my  half-awake  senses.  I  believe  I  dozed  off  leaning 
over  the  rail,  till  an  abrupt  burst  of  yells,  an  over- 
whelming outbreak  of  a  pent-up  and  mysterious  frenzy, 
woke  me  up  in  a  bewildered  wonder.  It  was  cut  short 
all  at  once,  and  the  low  droning  went  on  with  an  effect 
of  audible  and  soothing  silence.  I  glanced  casually  into 
the  Kttle  cabin.  A  light  was  burning  within,  but  Mr. 
Kurtz  was  not  there. 

"  I  think  I  would  have  raised  an  outcry  if  I  had  be- 
lieved my  eyes.  But  I  didn't  believe  them  at  first — the 
thing  seemed  so  impossible.  The  fact  is  I  was  completely 
unnerved  by  a  sheer  blank  fright,  pure  abstract  terror, 
unconnected  with  any  distinct  shape  of  physical  danger. 
What  made  this  emotion  so  overpowering  was — how  shall 
I  define  it.^ — the  moral  shock  I  received,  as  if  something 
altogether  monstrous,  intolerable  to  thought  and  odious 
to  the  soul,  had  been  thrust  upon  me  unexpectedly.  This 
lasted  of  course  the  merest  fraction  of  a  second,  and 
then  the  usual  sense  of  commonplace,  deadly  danger,  the 
possibility  of  a  sudden  onslaught  and  massacre,  or  some- 
thing of  the  kind,  which  I  saw  impending,  was  positively 
welcome  and  composing.  It  pacified  me,  in  fact,  so 
much,  that  I  did  not  raise  an  alarm. 

"  There   was   an  agent  buttoned   up   inside   an   ulster 

and  sleeping  on  a  chair  on  deck  within  three  feet  of 

[  160  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

me.  The  yells  had  not  awakened  him;  he  snored  very 
sightly;  I  left  him  to  his  slumbers  and  leaped  ashore. 
I  did  not  betray  Mr.  Kurtz — it  was  ordered  I  should 
never  betray  him — it  was  written  I  should  be  loyal  to 
the  nightmare  of  my  choice.  I  was  anxious  to  deal 
with  this  shadow  by  myself  alone, — and  to  this  day  I 
don't  know  why  I  was  so  jealous  of  sharing  with  any-, 
one  the  peculiar  blackness  of  that  experience. 

"  As  soon  as  I  got  on  the  bank  I  saw  a  trail — a  broad 
trail  through  the  grass.  I  remember  the  exultation  with 
which  I  said  to  myself,  '  He  can't  walk — he  is  crawling 
on  all-fours — I've  got  him.'  The  grass  was  wet  with 
dew.  I  strode  rapidly  with  clenched  fists.  I  fancy  I 
had  some  vague  notion  of  falling  upon  him  and  giving 
him  a  drubbing.  I  don't  know.  I  had  some  imbecile 
thoughts.  The  knitting  old  woman  with  the  cat  ob- 
truded herself  upon  my  memorj^  as  a  most  impropei 
person  to  be  sitting  at  the  other  end  of  such  an  affair 
I  saw  a  row  of  pilgrims  squirting  lead  in  the  air  outi' 
of  Winchesters  held  to  the  hip.  I  thought  I  woul<* 
never  get  back  to  the  steam.er,  and  imagined  myself 
living  alone  and  unarmed  in  the  woods  to  an  advancecj 
age.  Such  silly  things — you  know.  And  I  remember 
I  confounded  the  beat  of  the  drum  with  the  beating  of 
my  heart,  and  was  pleased  at  its  calm  regularity. 

"  I  kept  to  the  track  though — then  stopped  to  listen. 
The  night  was  very  clear:  a  dark  blue  space,  sparkling 
^y'.th  dew  and  starlight,  in  v/hich  black  things  steed 
very  still.  I  thought  I  could  see  a  kind  of  motion  ahead 
cf  me.      I  was   strangely   cocksure   of   everything  that 

[  161  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

ni^ht.  I  actually  left  the  track  and  ran  in  a  wide  semi- 
circle (I  veril}^  believe  chuckling  to  myself)  so  as  to 
get  in  front  of  that  stir,  of  that  motion  I  had  seen — 
if  indeed  I  had  seen  anything.  I  was  circumventing 
Kurtz  as  though  it  had  been  a  boyish  game. 

"  I  came  upon  him,  and,  if  he  had  not  heard  me  coming, 
I  would  have  fallen  over  him  too,  but  he  got  up  in 
time.  He  rose,  unsteady-,  long,  pale,  indistinct,  like  a 
vapor  exhaled  by  the  earth,  and  sv/ayed  slightly,  misty 
and  silent  before  me;  while  at  my  back  the  fires  loomed 
between  the  trees,  and  the  murmur  of  many  voices  issued 
from  the  forest.  I  had  cut  him  off  cleverly ;  but  whem 
actually  confronting  him  I  seemed  to  come  to  my  senses, 
I  saw  the  danger  in  its  right  proportion.  It  was  by 
no  means  over  yet.  Suppose  he  began  to  shout?  Though 
he  could  hardly  stand,  there  was  still  plenty  of  vigor 
in  his  voice.  '  Go  away — hide  yourself,'  he  said,  in  that 
profound  tone.  It  vras  very  awful.  I  glanced  ba<!k. 
We  were  within  thirt}-  yards  from  the  nearest  fire.  A 
black  figure  stood  up,  strode  on  long  black  legs,  waving 
long  black  arms,  across  the  glow.  It  had  horns — ante- 
lope horns,  I  think — on  its  head.  Some  sorcerer,  soMe 
witch-man,  no  doubt :  it  looked  fiend-like  enough.  '  D« 
you  know  what  you  are  doing?'  I  whispered.  'Per- 
fectly^,' he  answered,  raising  his  voice  for  that  single 
word:  it  sounded  to  me  far  off  and  yet  loud,  like  a  hail 
through  a  speaking-trumpet.  If  he  makes  a  row  we 
are  lost,  I  thought  to  myself.  This  clearly  was  not  a 
case  for  fisticuffs,  even  apart  from  the  very  natunjl 
aversion  I  hac  to  beat  tliat  Slmdow — this  wandering  awd 
[  1<3S  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

tormented  thing.  '  You  will  be  lost,'  I  said — '  utterly 
lost.'  One  get^  sometimes  such  a  flash  of  inspiration, 
you  know.  I  did  say  the  right  thing,  though  indeed 
he  could  not  have  been  more  irretrievably  lost  than  he 
was  at  this  very  moment,  when  the  foundations  of  our 
intimacy  were  being  laid — to  endure — to  endure — eren 
to   the  end — even  be3^ond. 

"  •  I  had  immense    plans,'    he    muttered    irresolutely. 
'  Yes,'  said  I ;  '  but  if  you  try  to  shout  I'll  smash  your 

head  with '  there  was  not  a  stick  or  a  stone  near.     '  I 

will  throttle  you  for  good,'  I  corrected  myself.  '  I  was 
on  the  threshold  of  great  things,'  he  pleaded,  in  a  voice 
of  longing,  with  a  wistfulness  of  tone  that  made  my 

blood  run  cold.   '  And  now^  for  this  stupid  scoundrel ' 

'  Your  success  in  Europe  is  assured  in  any  case,'  I  ai- 
finncd,  steadily.  I  did  not  want  to  have  the  throttling 
of  l\im,  you  understand — and  indeed  it  would  have  been 
very  little  use  for  any  practical  purpose.  I  tried  to 
break  the  spell — the  heavy,  mute  spell  of  the  wilder- 
ness— that  seemed  to  draw  him  to  its  pitiless  breast  by 
the  awakening  of  forgotten  and  brutal  instincts,  by  t'nt.^ 
memory  of  gratified  and  monstrous  passions.  This  alone, 
I  was  convinced,  had  driven  him  out  to  the  edge  of  the 
forest,  to  the  bush,  towards  the  gleam  of  fires,  the  throb 
of  drums,  the  drone  of  weird  incantations;  this  alone 
had  beguiled  his  unlavv^ful  soul  beyond  the  bounds  of 
permitted  aspirations.  And,  don't  you  see,  the  terror 
of  the  position  7/as  not  in  being  knocked  on  the  head 
—though  I  had  a  very  lively  sense  of  that  danger  too 
—but  in  this,  that  I  had  to  deal  with  a  being  to  whom 
[  163  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

I  could  not  appeal  in  the  name  of  anything  high  or  low. 
I  had,  even  like  the  niggers,  to  invoke  him — himself — ■ 
his  own  exalted  and  incredible  degradation.  There  'Vas 
nothing  either  above  or  below  him,  and  I  knew  it.  He 
had  kicked  himxSelf  loose  of  the  earth.  Confound  tlie 
man !  he  had  kicked  the  very  earth  to  pieces.  He  was 
alone,  and  I  before  him  did  not  know  whether  I  stood 
on  the  ground  or  floated  in  the  air.  I've  been  telling 
you  what  we  said — repeating  the  phrases  we  pronounced, 
• — but  what's  the  good.'^  They  were  common  everj^day 
words, — ^the  familiar,  vague  sounds  exchanged  on  every 
waking  day  of  life.  But  what  of  that.?  They  had  be- 
liind  them,  to  my  mind,  the  terrific  suggestiveness  of 
words  heard  in  dreams,  of  phrases  spoken  in  night- 
mares. Soul !  If  anybody  had  ever  struggled  with  a 
soul,  I  am  the  man.  And  I  wasn't  arguing  with  a  luna- 
tic either.  Believd)me  or  not,  his  intelligence  v/as  per- 
fectly clear — concentrated,  it  is  true,  upon  himself  with 
horrible  intensity,  yet  clear;  and  therein  was  my  only 
chance — barring,  of  course,  the  killing  him  there  and 
then,  which  wasn't  so  good,  on  account  of  unavoidable 
noise.  But  his  soul  was  mad.  Being  alone  in  the  wilder- 
ness, it  had  looked  within  itself,  and,  by  heavens !  I  tell 
you,  it  had  gone  mad.  I  had — for  my  sins,  I  suppose — • 
to  go  through  the  ordeal  of  looking  into  it  myself.  No 
eloquence  could  have  been  so  withering  to  one's  belief 
in  mankind  as  his  final  burst  of  sincerity.  He  struggled 
with  himself,  too.  I  saw  it, — I  heard  it.  I  saw  the  in- 
conceivable mystery  of  a  soul  that  knew  no  restraint,  no 
faith,  and  no  fear,  yet  struggling  blindly  with  itself.  I 
[  164^  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

kept  my  liead  pretty  well;  but  when  I  had  him  at  last 
stretched  on  the  couch,  I  wiped  my  forehead,  while  my 
legs  shook  under  me  as  though  I  had  carried  half  a 
ton  on  m.y  back  down  that  hill.  And  yet  I  had  only 
supported  him,  his  bony  arm  clasped  round  my  neck 
- — and  he  was  not  much  heavier  than  a  child. 

"  When  next  day  we  left  at  noon,  the  crowd,  of  whose 
presence  behind  the  curtain  of  trees  I  had  been  acutely 
conscious  all  the  time,  flowed  out  of  the  woods  again, 
filled  the  clearing,  covered  the  slope  with  a  mass  of  naked, 
breathing,  quivering,  bronze  bodies.  I  steamed  up  a 
bit,  then  swung  down-stream,  and  two  thousand  eyes 
followed  the  evolutions  of  the  splashing,  thumping, 
fierce  river-demon  beating  the  water  with  its  terrible  tail 
and  breathing  black  sm.oke  into  the  air.  In  front  of 
the  first  rank,  along  the  river,  three  men,  plastered  with 
bright  red  earth  from  head  to  foot,  strutted  to  and  fro 
restlessly.  When  we  came  abreast  again,  they  faced  the 
river,  stamped  their  feet,  nodded  their  horned  heads, 
swayed  their  scarlet  bodies ;  they  shook  towards  the  fierce 
river-demon  a  bunch  of  black  feathers,  a  mangy  skin 
with  a  pendent  tail — something  that  looked  like  a  dried 
gourd;  they  shouted  periodically  together  strings  of 
amazing  vrords  that  resembled  no  sounds  of  human  lan- 
guage; and  the  deep  murmurs  of  the  crowd,  inter- 
rupted suddenly,  were  like  the  response  of  some  satanic 
litany. 

"  We  had  carried  Kurtz  into  the  pilot-house :  there  was 

more  air  there.     Lying  on  the  couch,  he  stared  through 

the  open  shutter.     There  was  an  eddy  in  the  mass  of 

[  165  ] 


a 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

human  bodies,  and  the  woman  with  helmeted  head  and 
lawn^^  cheeks  rushed  out  to  the  verj'  brink  of  the  .stream. 
She  put  out  her  hands,  shouted  something,  and  all  tl lat 
vxild    mob   took    up   the   shout    in    a   roaring  chorus  of 

rticulated,  rapid,  breathless  utterance. 
Do  you  understand  this.^  '  1  asked. 

"  He  kept  on  looking  out  past  me  with  fiery,  longing 
eyes,  with  a  mingled  expression  of  wistfulness  and  hate. 
He  m.ade  no  answer,  but  I  saw  a  smile,  a  smile  of  inde- 
finable meaning.,  appear  on  his  colorless  lips  tha,t  a  nio- 
iiient  after  twitched  convulsively.  'Do  I  not?'  he  said 
slowW,  gasping,  as  if  the  words  had  been  torn  out  of 
liim  by  a  supernatural  power. 

"  I  pulled  the  string  of  the  whistle,  and  I  did  this 
because  I  saw  the  pilgrims  on  deck  getting  out  their 
rifles  w^th  an  air  of  anticipating  a  jolly  lark.  At  the 
sudden  screech  there  was  r-  movement  of  abject  terror 
through  that  wedged  mass  of  bodies.  '  Don't !  don't ! 
you  frighten  them  away,'  cried  someone  on  deck  dis- 
consolately. I  pulled  the  string  time  after  time.  Tliey 
broke  and  ran,  the}^  leaped,  they  crouched,  they  swerved, 
thc}^  dodged  the  flying  terror  of  tiie  sound.  The  three 
red  chaps  had  fallen  flat,  face  down  on  the  shore,  as 
though  they  had  been  shot  dead.  Only  the  barbarous 
and  superb  woman  did  not  so  much  as  flinch,  and 
stretched  tragicall}^  her  bare  arms  after  us  over  t]ie 
somber  and  glittering  river. 

"  And  then  that  imbecile  crowd  down  on  tlie  deck 
started  their  little  fun,  fuid  I  could  see  nothing  more 
for  smoke. 

r  166  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

'•  The  brown  current  ran  swiftly  out  of  the  heart  oi 
darkness,  bearing  us  down  towards  the  sea  with  twice 
the  speed  of  our  upward  progress ;  and  Kurtz's  life  was 
running  swiftly  too,  ebbing,  ebbing  out  of  his  heart 
into  the  sea  of  inexorable  time.  The  manager  was  very 
placid,  he  had  no  vital  anxieties  nov/,  he  took  us  both 
in  with  a  comprehensive  and  satisfied  glance :  the  '  afr'air  ' 
had  come  off  as  well  as  could  be  wished.  I  saw  the  time 
approaching  when  I  would  be  left  alone  of  the  party  of 
*  unsound  method.'  The  pilgrims  looked  upon  me  with 
disfavor.  I  was,  so  to  speak,  numbered  with  the  dead. 
It  is  strange  how  I  accepted  this  unforeseen  partner- 
ship, this  choice  of  nightmares  forced  upon  me  in  the 
teaebrous  land  invaded  by  these  mean  and  greedy  phan- 
toms. 

"  Kurtz  discoursed.  A  voice !  a  voice !  It  rang  deep 
to  the  very  last.  It  survived  his  strength  to  hide  in 
th«»  Jiiagnificent  folds  of  eloquence  the  barren  darkness 
of  \us  heart.  Oh,  he  struggled !  he  struggled !  The 
wastes  of  his  weary  brain  were  haunted  by  shadowy 
images  now — images  of  wealth  and  fame  revolving 
dbsequiously  round  his  unextinguishable  gift  of  noble 
and  lofty  expression.  My  Intended,  my  station,  my 
career,  my  ideas — these  were  the  subjects  for  the  occa- 
sional utterances  of  elevated  sentiments.  The  shade  of 
the  original  Kurtz  frequented  the  bedside  of  the  hollow 
sham,  whose  fate  it  was  to  be  buried  presently  in  the 
mold  of  primeval  earth.  But  both  the  diabolic  love  and 
tise  unearthly  hate  of  the  mysteries  it  had  penetrated 
fought   for  the   possession    of   that   soul   satiated   with 

[  16T  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

primitive  emotions,  avid  of  l3'ing  fame,  of  sham  dis- 
tinction, of  all  the  appearances  of  success  and  power. 

"  Sometimes  he  was  contemptibly  childish.  He  desired 
to  have  kings  meet  him  at  railway-stations  on  his  return 
from  some  ghastly  Nowhere,  where  he  intended  to  ac- 
complish great  things.  '  You  show  them  you  have  in 
you  something  that  is  really  profitable,  and  then  there 
«^ill  be  no  limits  to  the  recognition  of  your  ability,'  he 
would  say.  '  Of  course  you  must  take  care  of  th^  mo- 
tives— right  motives — always.'  The  long  reaches  that 
were  like  one  and  the  si  ae  reach,  monotonous  bends  that 
were  exactly  ahke,  slipped  past  the  steamer  with  their 
multitude  of  secular  trees  looking  patiently  after  this 
grimy  fragment  of  another  world,  the  forerunner  of 
change,  of  conquest,  of  trade,  of  massacres,  of  blessings. 
I  looked  ahead — piloting.  '  Close  the  shutter,'  said 
Kurtz  suddenly  one  day ;  '  I  can't  bear  to  look  at  tliis.' 
I  did  so.  There  was  a  silence.  '  Oh,  but  I  will  wring 
your  heart  3^et ! '  he  cried  at  the  invisible  wilderness. 

"  We  broke  down — as  I  had  expected — and  had  to  lie 
up  for  repairs  at  the  head  of  an  island.  Tliis  delay 
was  the  first  thing  that  shook  Kurtz's  confidence.  One 
morning  he  gave  me  a  packet  of  papers  and  a  plioto- 
graph, — the  lot  tied  together  with  a  shoe-string.  '  Keep 
this  for  me,'  he  said.  '  This  noxious  fool '  (meaning 
the  manager)  '  is  capable  of  prying  into  my  boxes  when 
I  am  not  looking.'  In  the  afternoon  I  saw  him.  He 
was  lying  on  his  back  with  closed  eyes,  and  I  withdrew 
quietly,  but  I  heard  him  mutter,  '  Live  rightly,  die, 
die    .    .    .'     I  listened.     There  was  nothing  more.    Was 

[  168] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

he  rehearsing  some  speech  in  his  sleep,  or  was  it  a  frag- 
ment of  a  phrase  from  some  newspaper  article?  He  had 
been  writing  for  the  papers  and  meant  to  do  so  again, 
'  for  the  furthering  of  my  ideas.     It's  a  duty.' 

"  His  was  an  impenetrable  darkness.  I  looked  at  him 
as  you  peer  down  at  a  man  who  is  lying  at  the  bottom 
of  a  precipice  where  the  sun  never  shines.  But  I  had 
not  much  tim^e  to  give  him,  because  I  was  helping  the 
engine-driver  to  take  to  pieces  the  leaky  cylinders,  to 
straighten  a  bent  connecting-rod,  and  in  other  such 
matters.  I  lived  in  an  infernal  mess  of  rust,  filings, 
nuts,  bolts,  spanners,  hammers,  ratchet-drills — things  I 
abominate,  because  I  don't  get  on  with  them.  I  tended 
the  little  forge  we  fortunately  had  aboard;  I  toiled 
wearily  in  a  wretched  scrap-heap — unless  I  had  the 
shakes  too  bad  to  stand. 

"  One  evening  cording  in  with  a  candle  I  vras  startled 
to  hear  him  say  a  little  tremulously,  '  I  am  lying  here 
in  the  dark  waiting  for  death.'  The  light  was  within 
a  foot  of  his  eyes.  I  forced  myself  to  murmur,  '  Oh, 
nonsense ! '  and  stood  over  him  as  if  transfixed.  _ 

"  Anything  approaching  the  change  that  came  over 
his  features  I  have  never  seen  before,  and  hope  never 
to  see  again.  Oh,  I  wasn't  touched.  I  was  fascinated. 
It  was  as  though  a  veil  had  been  rent.  I  saw  on  that 
ivory  face  the  expression  of  somber  pride,  of  ruthless 
power,  of  craven  terror — of  an  intense  and  hopeless 
despair.  Did  he  live  his  life  again  in  every  detail  of 
desire,  temptation,  and  surrender  during  that  supreme 
j    moment  of  complete  ki^owledge?     He  cried  in  a  whisper 

L  169  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

at  some  image,  at  some  vision, — he  cried  out  twice,  a 
cry  that  was  no  more  than  a  breath — 

"  '  The  horror  !     The  horror  ! ' 

'*  I  blew  the  candle  out  and  left  the  cabin.  The  pil- 
grims were  dining  in  the  mess-room,  and  I  took  my 
place  opposite  the  manager,  who  lifted  his  eyes  to  give 
me  a  questioning  glance,  which  I  successfully  ignored. 
He  leaned  back,  serene,  with  that  peculiar  smile  of  his 
sealing  the  unexpressed  depths  of  his  meanness.  A  con- 
tinuous shower  of  small  flies  streamed  upon  the  lamp, 
upon  the  cloth,  upon  our  hands  and  faces.  Suddenly 
the  manager's  boy  put  his  insolent  black  head  in  the 
doorway,  and  said  in  a  tone  of  scathing  contempt — 

'•  •  Mistah  Kurtz — he  dead.' 

'*  All  the  pilgrims  ruslied  out  to  see.  I  remained,  and 
wont  on  with  m^^  dinner.  I  believe  I  was  considered 
brutally  callous.  However,  I  did  not  eat  much.  There 
was  a  lamp  in  there — liglit,  don't  you  Know — and  outside 
it  was  so  beastly,  beastly  dark.  I  went  no  more  near 
iiie  remarkable  man  who  had  pronounced  a  judgment 
U|)on  the  adventures  of  his  soul  on  this  earth.  The 
Toice  was  gone.  What  else  had  been  there  ?  But  I  am 
of  course  aware  that  next  day  the  pilgrims  buried  some- 
thing in  a  muddy  hole. 

'*  And  then  they  very  nearly  buried  me. 

"  However,  as  you  sec,  I  did  not  go  to  join  Kurtz 
there  and  then.  I  did  not.  I  remained  to  dream  the 
nightmare  out  to  tlie  end,  and  to  show  my  loyalty  to 
Kurtz  once  more.  Destiny.  My  destiny !  Droll  thing 
life  is — that  mysterious  arrangement  of  merciless  logic 

[  170  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

for  a  futile  purpose.     The  most  you  can  hope  from  it 
is  some  knowledge  of  3^ourself — ^that  comes  too  late — a 
crop  of  unextinguishablc  regrets.     I  have  wrestled  with 
death.   It  is  tlie  most  unexciting  contest  you  can  imagine. 
It  takes  place  in  an  impalpable  grayness,  with  nothing 
underfoot,  with  nothing    around,    without    spectators, 
without  clamor,  without  glory,  without  the  great  desire 
of  victory,  without  the  great  fear  of  defeat,  in  a  sickly 
atmosphere  of  tepid  skepticism,  without  much  belief  in 
jour  own  right,  and  still  less  in  that  of  your  adversary. 
If  such  is  the  form  of  ultimate  wisdom,  then  life  is  a 
greater  riddle  than  some  of  us  think  it  to  be.     I  was 
within  a  hair's-breadth  of  the  last  opportunity  for  pro- 
nouncement, and  I  found  with  humiliation  that  probably 
I  would  have  nothing  to  say.     This  is  the  reason  why  I 
affirm  that  Kurtz  was  a  remarkable  man.     He  had  some- 
thing to  say.     Hfe  said  it.     Since  I  had  peeped  over  the 
edge  myself,  I  understand  better  the  meaning  of   his 
stare,  that  could  not  see  the  flame  of  the  candle,  but  was 
wide  enough  to  embrace  the  whole    universe,    piercing 
enough  to  penetrate  all  the  hearts  that  beat  in  the  dark- 
ness.     He  had    summed  up — he    had    judged.      '  Tlv? 
horror ! '     He  was  a  remarkable  man.     After  all,;  this 
was  the  expression  of  some  sort  of  belief ;  it  had  candor, 
it  had  conviction,  it  had  a  vibrating  note  of  revolt  in  its 
whisper,  it  had  the  appalling  face  of  a  glimpsed  truthy 
• — the  strange  commingling  of  desire  and  hate.     And  it 
is  not  my  own  extremity  I  remember  best — a  vision  of 
grayness  without  form  filled  with  physical  pain,  and  a 
careless  contempt  for  the  evanescence  of  all  things — eve-m 

r  ni  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

of  this  pain  itself.  No !  It  is  iiis  extremity  that  I  seem 
to  have  lived  tlirough.  True,  he  had  made  that  last 
stride,  he  had  stepped  over  the  edge,  while  I  had  been 
permitted  to  draw  back  my  hesitating  foot.  And  per- 
liaps  in  this  is  the  whole  difference ;  perhaps  all  the  vris- 
dom,  and  all  truth,  and  all  sincerity,  are  just  compressed 
into  that  inappreciable  moment  of  time  in  which  we  step 
over  the  threshold  of  the  invisible.  Perhaps !  I  like  to 
think  my  sum.ming-up  would  not  have  been  a  word  of 
careless  contempt.  Better  his  cry — much  better.  It  was 
an  affirmation,  a  moral  victory  paid  for  by  innumerable 
defeats,  by  abominable  terrors,  by  abominable  satisfac- 
tions. But  it  was  a  victory !  That  is  why  I  have  re- 
mained loyal  to  Kurtz  to  the  last,  and  even  beyond, 
when  a  long  time  after  I  heard  once  more,  not  his  own 
voice,  but  the  echo  of  his  magnificent  eloquence  thrown 
to  me  from  a  soul  as  translucently  pure  as  a  cliff  of 
crystal. 

"'•  No,  they  did  not  bury  me,  though  there  is  a  period 
of  time  which  I  remember  mistily,  with  a  shuddering 
wonder,  like  a  passage  through  some  inconceivable  world 
that  had  no  hope  in  it  and  no  desire.  I  found  myself 
back  in  the  sepulchral  city  resenting  the  sight  of  people 
hurrying  through  the  streets  to  filch  a  little  money  from 
each  other,  to  devour  their  infamous  cookery,  to  gulp 
their  unwholesome  beer,  to  dream  their  insignificant  and 
silly  dreams.  They  trespassed  upon  my  thoughts.  They 
were  intruders  whose  knowledge  of  life  was  to  me  an 
irritating  pretense,  because  I  felt  so  sure  they  could 
not  possibly  know  the  things  I  knew.     Their  bearing, 

r  ns  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

which  was  simply  the  bearing  of  commonplace  individuals 
going  about  their  business  in  the  assurance  of  perfect 
safety,  was  offensive  to  me  like  the  outrageous  flaunt- 
ings  of  folly  in  the  face  of  a  danger  it  is  unable  to 
comprehend.  I  had  no  particular  desire  to  enlighten 
them,  but  I  had  some  difficulty  in  restraining  myself 
from  laughing  in  their  faces,  so  full  of  stupid  impor- 
tance. I  dare  say  I  was  not  very  well  at  that  time.  I 
tottered  about  the  streets — there  were  various  affairs  to 
settle — grinning  bitterly  at  perfectly  respectable  per- 
sons. I  admit  my  behavior  was  inexcusable,  but  then  my 
temperature  was  seldom  normal  in  these  days.  My  dear 
aunt's  endeavors  to  '  nurse  up  my  strength  '  seemed  alto- 
gether beside  the  mark.  It  w^as  not  my  strength  that 
wanted  nursing,  it  was  m}^  imagination  that  wanted 
soothing.  I  kept  the  bundle  of  papers  given  me  by 
Kurtz,  not  knowing  exactly  what  to  do  with  it.  His 
mother  had  died  lately,  watched  over,  as  I  was  told,  by 
his  Intended.  A  clean-shaved  man,  with  an  official 
manner  and  wearing  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  called  on 
me  one  day  and  made  inquiries,  at  first  circuitous,  after- 
wards suavely  pressing,  about  what  he  was  pleased  to 
denominate  certain  '  documents.'  I  was  not  surprised, 
because  I  had  had  tvro  rows  with  the  manager  on  the 
subject  out  there.  I  had  refused  to  give  up  the  smallest 
scrap  out  of  that  package,  and  I  took  the  same  attitude 
with  the  spectacled  man.  He  became  darkly  menacing 
at  last,  and  with  much  heat  argued  that  the  Company 
had  the  right  to  every  bit  of  information  about  its  '  ter- 
Iritories.'     And,   said   he,   '  Mv.    Kurtz's   knowledge   of 

[  173  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

oj.'.explored  regions  must  have  been  necessarily  extensive 
and  peculiar — owing  to  his  great  abilities  and  to  the 
deplorable  circumstances  in  which  he  had  been  placed: 

therefore ' 1   assured   him   Mr.    Kurtz's   linowledge, 

however  extensive,  did  not  bear  upon  the  problems  of 
commerce  or  administration.  He  invoked  then  the  name 
\^oi  science.  '  It  would  be  an  incalculable  loss  if,'  &c.,  &c. 
1  offered  him  the  report  on  the  '  Suppression  of  Savage 
Customs,'  with  the  postscriptum  torn  off.  E[e  took  it 
up  eagerly,  but  ended  by  sniffing  at  it  with  an  air  of 
contem.pt.  '  This  is  not  what  we  had  a  riglit  to  expect,' 
he  remarked..  '  Expect  nothing  else,'  I  said.  '  There 
are  only  private  letters.'  He  withdrew  upon  some  threat 
of  legal  proceedings,  and  I  saw  him  no  more ;  but  an- 
other fellow,  calling  himself  Kurtz's  cousin,  appeared 
two  days  later,  and  was  anxious  to  hear  all  the  details 
about  his  dear  relative's  last  moments.  Incidentally  he 
gave  me  to  understand  that  Kurtz  had  been  essentially 
a  great  musician.  '  There  was  the  making  of  an  im- 
mense success,'  said  the  man,  who  was  an  organist.  I 
believe,  with  lank  gray  hair  flowing  over  a  greasy  coat- 
collar.  I  had  no  reason  to  doubt  his  statement;  and  to 
this  day  I  am  unable  to  say  what  was  Kurtz's  pro- 
fess? Ion,  whether  he  ever  had  any — ^which  was  the  greatest 
of  his  talents.  I  had  taken  him  for  a  painter  who  wrote 
for  tlie  papers,  or  else  for  a  journalist  wlio  could  paint 
— but  even  the  cousin  (who  took  snuff  during  the  inter- 
view) could  not  tell  me  what  he  had  been exactly.    He 

was  a  universal  genius — on  that  point  I  agreed  with  the 
old  chap,  who  thereupon   blew  his  nose  noisily   into  a 

[  174  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

large  cotton  handkerchief  and  withdrew  in  senile  agita- 
tion, bearing  off  some  family  letters  and  memoranda 
without  importance.  Ultimately  a  journalist  anxious  to 
know  something  of  the  fate  of  his  '  dear  colleague  ' 
turned  up.  This  visitor  informed  me  Kurtz's  proper 
sphere  ought  to  have  been  politics  '  on  the  popular  side.' 
He  had  furry  straight  eyebrows,  bristly  hair  cropped 
short,  an  eye-glass  on  a  broad  ribbon,  and,  becoming 
expansive,  confessed  his  opinion  that  Kurtz  really 
couldn't  write  a  bit — '  but  heavens !  how  that  man  could 
talk !  He  electrified  large  meetings.  He  had  faith — 
don't  you  see? — he  had  the  faith.  He  could  get  himself 
to  beheve  anything — anything.  He  would  have  been 
a  splendid  leader  of  an  extreme  party.'  '  What  party  ?  ' 
I  asked.  '  Any  party,'  answered  the  other.  '  He  was 
an — an — extremist.'  Did  I  not  think  so.?  I  assented. 
Did  I  know,  he  asked,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  curiosity, 
•  what  it  was  that  had  induced  him  to  go  out  there  ?  ' 
'  Yes,'  said  I,  and  forthwith  handed  him  the  famous 
Report  for  publication,  if  he  thought  fit.  He  glanced 
through  it  hurriedly,  mumbling  all  the  time,  judged  '  it 
vvould  do,'  and  took  himself  off  with  tliis  plunder. 
"  Thus  I  was  left  at  last  with  a  slim  packet  of  lette»s 
and  the  girl's  portrait.  She  struck  me  as  beautiful — 
I  mean  she  had  a  beautiful  expression.  I  know  that  the 
sunlight  can  be  made  to  lie  too,  j'^et  one  felt  that  ne 
manipulation  of  light  and  pose  could  have  conveyed  the 
delicate  shade  of  truthfulness  upon  those  features.  She 
seemed  ready  to  listen  without  mental  reservation,  with- 
out suspicion,  without  a  thought  for  herself.  I  cob- 
f   175  ] 


I 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

eluded  I  would  go  and  give  her  back  her  portrait  and 
those  letters  mj^self .  Curiosity  ?  Yes ;  and  also  some 
other  feeling  perhaps.  Ail  that  had  been  Kurtz's  had 
passed  out  of  my  hands:  his  soul,  his  body,  his  station, 
his  plans,  his  ivory,  his  career.  There  remained  cnh' 
his  memory  and  his  Intended — and  I  wanted  to  give  that 
up  too  to  the  past,  in  a  way, — ^to  surrender  personally 
all  that  remained  of  him  with  me  to  that  oblivion  which 
is  the  last  word  of  our  common  fate.  I  don't  defend 
myself.  I  had  no  clear  perception  of  what  it  was  I 
really  wanted.  Perhaps  it  was  an  impulse  of  uncon- 
scious loyalty,  or  the  fulfillment  of  one  of  these  ironic 
necessities  that  lurk  in  the  facts  of  human  existence. 
I  don't  know.     I  can't  tell.     But  I  went. 

"  I  thought  his  memory  was  like  the  other  memories 
of  the  dead  that  accumulate  in  every  man's  life, — a  vague 
impress  on  the  brain  of  shadows  that  had  fallen  on  it 
in  their  swift  and  final  passage ;  but  before  the  high  and 
ponderous  door,  between  the  tall  houses  of  a  street  as 
still  and  decorous  as  a  well-kept  alley  in  a  cemetery,  I 
had  a  vision  of  him  on  the  stretcher,  opening  his  mouth 
voraciously,  as  if  to  devour  all  the  earth  with  all  iis 
mankind.  He  lived  then  before  me;  he  lived  as  much 
as  he  had  ever  lived — a  shadow  insatiable  of  splendid 
appearances,  of  frightful  realities ;  a  shadow  darker  than 
the  shadow  of  the  night,  and  draped  nobly  in  the  folds 
of  a  gorgeous  eloquence.  The  vision  seemed  to  enter 
the  house  with  me — the  stretcher,  the  phantom-bearers, 
the  wild  crowd  of  obedient  worshipers,  the  gloom  of  the 
forests,  the  glitter  of  the  reach  between  the  murky  bends, 

[  1-6  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

the  beat  of  the  drum,  regular  and  muffled  like  the  beat- 
ing of  a  heart — the  heart  of  a  conquering  darkness.  It 
was  a  moment  of  trium.ph  for  the  wilderness,  an  invad- 
ing and  vengeful  rush  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  I  would 
have  to  keep  back  alone  for  the  salvation  of  another 
soul.  And  the  memory  of  what  I  had  heard  him  say 
afar  there,  with  the  horned  shapes  stirring  at  my  back, 
in  the  glow  of  fires,  within  the  patient  woods,  those 
broken  phrases  came  back  to  me,  were  heard  again  in 
their  ominous  and  terrifying  simplicity.  I  remembered 
his  abject  pleading,  his  abject  threats,  the  colossal  scale 
cf  his  vile  desires,  the  meanness,  the  tonnent,  the  tem- 
pestuous anguish  of  his  soul.  And  later  on  I  seemed  to 
see  his  collected  languid  m.anner,  when  he  said  one  day, 
'  This  lot  of  ivory  now  is  really  mine.  The  Com.pany 
did  not  pay  for  it.  I  collected  it  myself  at  a  very  great 
personal  risk.  I  am  afraid  they  will  try  to  claim  it  as 
theirs  though.  H'm.  It  is  a  difficult  case.  What  do 
3^ou  think  I  ought  to  do — resist.?  Eh.?  I  want  no  m^ore 
than  justice.'  .  .  .  He  wanted  no  more  .than  justice — • 
no  more  than  justice.  I  rang  the  bell  before  a  mahogany 
door  on  the  first  floor,  and  while  I  waited  he  seemed  to 
stare  at  me  out  of  the  glassy  panel — stare  with  that  wide 
and  immense  stare  embracing,  condemning,  loathing  all 
the  universe.  I  seemed  to  hear  the  whispered  cry,  '  The 
horror  !     The  horror  ! ' 

'*  The  dusk  was  falling.     I  had  to  wait  in  a  lofty  draw- 
ing-room with  three  long  windows  from  floor  to  ceiling 
that    were  like   three  luminous   and   bedraped   columns. 
The  bent  gilt  legs  and  backs  of  the  furniture  shone  in 
[  177  ] 


HEART    OF    DAllKNESS 

indistinct  curves.  The  tall  marble  fireplace  had  a  cold 
and  monumental  whiteness.  A  grand  piano  stood  mas- 
sively in  a  corner,  with  dark  gleams  on  the  flat  sur- 
faces like  a  somber  and  polished  sarcophagus.  A  high 
door  opened— closed.     I  rose. 

"  She  came  forward,  all  in  black,  with  a  pale  head, 
floating  towards  me  in  the  dusk.  She  was  in  mourning. 
It  was  more  than  a  year  since  his  death,  more  than  a 
year  since  the  news  came;  she  seemed  as  though  she 
would  remember  and  mourn  for  ever.  She  took  both 
my  hands  in  hers  and  murmured,  '  I  had  heard  you 
were  coming.'  I  noticed  she  was  not  very  young — I 
mean  not  girlish.  She  had  a  mature  capacity  for  fidelity, 
for  belief,  for  suffering.  The  room  seemc^^i  to  have 
grown  darker,  as  if  all  the  sad  light  of  the  cloudy 
evening  had  taken  refuge  on  her  forehead.  This  fair 
liair,  this  pale  visage,  this  pure  brow,  s-^emed  surrounded 
by  an  ashy  halo  from  which  the  dark  eyes  looked  out  at 
me.  Their  glance  was  guileless,  profound,  confident,  and 
trustful.  She  carried  her  sorrowful  head  as  though  she 
were  proud  of  that  sorrow,  as  though  she  would  say,  I 
— I  alone  know  how  to  mourn  for  him  as  he  deserves. 
But  while  we  were  still  shaking  hands,  such  a  look  of 
awful  desolation  came  upon  her  face  that  I  perceived  she 
was  one  of  those  creatures  that  are  not  the  playthings 
of  Time.  For  her  he  had  died  only  yesterday.  And, 
by  Jove !  the  impression  was  so  powerful  that  for  me  too 
he  seemed  to  have  died  only  yesterday — nay,  this  very 
minute.  I  saw  her  and  liim  in  the  same  instant  of  time 
— his  death  and  her  sorrow — I  saw  her  sorrow  in  the 

[  ns  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

very  moment  of  his  death.  Do  you  understand?  I  saw 
them  together — I  heard  them  together.  She  had  said, 
with  a  deep  catch  of  the  breath,  '  I  have  survived ;  '  while 
mj  strained  ears  seemed  to  hear  distinctly,  mingled  with 
her  tone  of  despairing  regret,  the  summing-up  whisper 
of  his  eternal  condemnation.  I  asked  myself  what  I 
was  doing  there,  with  a  sensation  of  panic  in  my  heart 
as  though  I  had  blundered  into  a  place  of  cruel  and 
absurd  mysteries  not  fit  for  a  human  being  to  behold. 
She  motioned  me  to  a  chair.  We  sat  down.  I  laid  the 
packet  gently  on  the  little  table,  and  she  put  her  hand 
over  it.  ...  '  You  knew  him  well,'  she  murmured, 
after  a  moment  of  mourning  silence. 

"  '  Intimacy  grows  quick  out  there,'  I  said.  '  I  knew 
him  as  well  as  it  is  possible  for  one  man  to  know  anotlier.' 

"  '  And  you  admired  him,'  she  said.  '  It  was  impossible 
to  know  him  and  not  to  admire  him.     Was  it.?  ' 

"  '  He  was  a  remarkable  man,'  I  said,  unsteadily.  Then 
before  the  appealing  fixity  of  her  gaze,  that  seemed  to 
watch  for  more  words  on  my  lips,  I  went  on,  '  It  was 
impossible  not  to ' 

"  '  Love  him,'  she  finished  eagerly,  silencing  me  into 
an  appalled  dumbness.  '  How  true !  how  true  t  But 
when  you  think  that  no  one  knew  him  so  well  as  I !  I 
had  all  his  noble  confidence.     I  knew  him  best.' 

"  '  You  knew  him  best,'  I  repeated.  And  perhaps  she 
did.  But  with  every  word  spoken  the  room  was  growing 
darker,  and  only  her  forehead,  smooth  and  white,  re- 
mained illumined  by  the  unextinguishable  light  of  belief 
and  love. 

[  ^9  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

"  '  You  were  his  friend,'  she  vrent  on.  '  His  friend,' 
she  repeated,  a  little  louder.  '  You  must  have  been,  if 
he  had  given  jou  tliis^  and  sent  jou  to  me.  I  feel  I 
can  speak  to  you — and  oh !  I  must  speak.  I  want  3/ou 
— you  who  have  heard  his  last  words — to  know  I  have 
been  worthy  of  him.  .  .  .  It  is  not  pride.  .  .  .  Yes ! 
I  am  proud  to  know  I  understood  him  better  than  any- 
one on  earth — ^he  told  me  so  himself.  And  since  his 
mother  died  I  have  had  no  one — no  one — to — ^to ' 

"  I  listened.  The  darkness  deepened.  I  was  not  even 
sure  whether  he  had  given  me  the  right  bundle.  I  rather 
suspect  he  wanted  me  to  take  care  of  another  batch  of 
his  papers  which,  after  his  death,  I  saw  the  manager 
examining  under  the  lamp.  And  the  girl  talked,  easing 
her  pain  in  the  certitude  of  my  sj^mpathy ;  she  talked  as 
thirsty  men  drink.  I  had  heard  that  her  engagement 
with  Kurtz  had  been  disapproved  by  her  people.  He 
wasn't  rich  enough  or  something.  And  indeed  I  don't 
know  whether  he  had  not  been  a  pauper  all  his  life.  He 
had  given  me  some  reason  to  infer  that  it  was  his  im- 
patience of  comparative  poverty  that  drove  him  out 
there. 

"  ' .  .  .  Who  was  not  his  friend  who  had  heard  him 
speak  once.f' '  she  was  saying.  '  He  drew  men  towards 
him  by  what  was  best  in  them.'  She  looked  at  me  with 
intensity.  '  It  is  the  gift  of  the  great,'  she  went  on, 
and  the  sound  of  her  low  voice  seemed  to  have  the  ac- 
companiment of  all  the  other  sounds,  full  of  mystery, 
desolation,  and  sorrow,  I  had  ever  heard — the  ripple  of 
the  river,  the  soughing  of  the  trees  swayed  by  the  wind, 

[  180  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

the  murmurs  of  wild  crowds,  the  faint  ring  of  incom- 
prehensible words  cried  from  afar,  the  whisper  of  a 
voice  speaking  from  beyond  the  threshold  of  an  eternal 
darkness.  '  But  you  have  heard  him. !  You  know !  '  she 
cried. 

"  '  Yes,  I  know,'  I  said  with  something  like  despair 
in  my  heart,  but  bowing  my  head  before  the  faith  that 
was  in  her,  before  that  great  and  saving  illusion  that 
shone  with  an  unearthly  glow  in  %e  darkness,  in  the 
triumphant  darkness  from  v.^hich  i  could  not  have  de- 
fended her — from  which  I  could  not  even  defend 
myself. 

"  '  What  a  loss  to  me — to  us ! ' — she  corrected  herself 
with  beautiful  generosity ;  then  added  in  a  murmur,  '  To 
the  world.'  By  the  last  gleams  of  twilight  I  could  see 
the  glitter  of  her  eyes,  full  of  tears — of  tears  that  would 
not  fall. 

"  '  I  have  been  very  happy — very  fortunate — ^very 
proud,'  she  went  on.  '  Too  fortunate.  Too  happy  for 
a  little  while.  And  now  I  am  unhappy  for — for 
life.' 

"  She  stood  up ;  her  fair  hair  seemed  to  catch  all  the 
remaining  light  in  a  glimmer  of  gold.     I  rose  too. 

"  '  And  of  all  this,'  she  went  on,  mournfully,  '  of  all  his 
promise,  and  of  all  his  greatness,  of  his  generous  mind, 
of  his  noble  hearty  nothing  remains — nothing  but  a 
memory.     You  and  I ' 


6i  i 


We  shall  always  remember  him,'  I  said,  hastily. 

*"  No ! '  she  cried.    '  It  is  impossible  that  all  this  should 

be  lost — that  such  a  life  should  be  sacrificed    to    leave 

r  181  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

nothing — but  sorrow.  You  know  what  vast  plans  he 
had.  I  knew  of  them  too — I  could  not  perhaps  under- 
stand,— but  others  knew  of  them.  Something  must  re- 
main.    His  words,  at  least,  have  not  died.' 

"  '  His  words  will  remain,'  I  said. 

"  '  And  his  example,'  she  whispered  to  herself.  '  Men 
looked  up  to  him, — his  goodness  shone  in  every  act.  His 
example ' 

"  '  True,'  I  said ;  '  his  example  too.  Yes,  his  example. 
I  forgot  that.' 

"  *•  But  I  do  not.  I  cannot — I  cannot  believe — not  yet. 
I  cannot  believe  that  I  shall  never  see  him  again,  that 
nobody  will  see  him  again,  never,  never,  never.' 

"  She  put  out  her  arms  as  if  after  a  retreating  figure, 
stretching  them  black  and  with  clasped  pale  hands  across 
the  fading  and  narrow  sheen  of  the  window.  Never  see 
him!  I  saw  him  clearly  enough  then.  I  shall  see  this 
eloquent  phantom  as  long  as  I  live,  and  I  shall  see  her 
too,  a  tragic  and  familiar  Shade,  resembling  in  this  ges- 
ture another  one,  tragic  also,  and  bedecked  with  power- 
less charms,  stretching  bare  brown  arms  over  the  glitter 
of  the  infernal  stream,  the  stream  of  darkness.  She  said 
suddenly  very  low,  '  He  died  as  he  lived.' 

"'His  end,'  said  I,  with  dull  anger  stirring  in  me, 
'''  was  in  every  way  worthy  of  his  life.' 

^* '  And  I  was  not  with  him,'  she  murmured.  My  anger 
subsided  before  a  feeling  of  infinite  pity. 

"  *  Everything   that   could   be   done '    I   mumbled. 

"  '  Ah,  but  I  believed  in  him  more  than  anyone  on 
earth — more  than  his  own  motlier,  more  than — himself. 

[  182 1 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

He  needed  me !  Me  !  I  would  have  treasured  every  sigh, 
every  word,  every  sign,  every  glance.' 

"  I  felt  like  a  chill  grip  on  my  chest.  '  Don't,'  I  said, 
in  a  muffled  voice. 

"  *  Forgive  mc.  I — I — have  mourned  so  long  in  silence 
— in  silence.  .  .  .  You  were  with  him — to  the  last.^^ 
I  think  of  his  loneliness.  Nobody  near  to  understand 
him  as  I  would  have  understood.  Perhaps  no  one  to 
hear.    .    .     . ' 

"  '  To  the  very  end,'  I  said,  shakily.  '  I  heard  his  very 
last  words.    .     .     .'     I  stopped  in  a  fright. 

"*  Repeat  them/  she  murmured  in  a  heart-broken  tone. 
*I  want — I  want — something — something — to — to  live 
with.' 

"  I  was  on  the  point  of  crying  at  her,  '  Don't  you  hear 
them.^  '  The  dusk  was  repeating  them  in  a  persistent 
whisper  all  around  us,  in  a  whisper  that  seemed  to  swell 
imenacingly  like  the  first  whisper  of  a  rising  wind.  CThe 
rhorror!  the  horror!' 

"* His  last  word — -to  live  v/ith/  she  insisted.  'Don't 
you  understand  I  lovtd  him — I  loved  him — I  loved  him ! ' 

"  I  pulled  m^'self  together  and  spoke  slowly. 

"  '  The  last  Vv ord  he  pronounced  v.as — -your  name^/ 

"  I  heard  a  light  sigh,  and  then  my  heart  stood  still, 
stopped  dead  short  by  an  exulting  and  terrible  cry,  by 
the  cry  of  inconceivable  triumph  and  of  unspeakable 
pain.  '  I  knevr  it — I  was  sure ! '  .  .  .  Slie  knew.  She 
was  sure.  I  heard  her  weeping;  she  had  hidden  her 
face  in  her  hands.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  house  Vv'ould 
collapse  before  I  could  escape,  that  the  heavens  woul^ 

[  183  ] 


HEART    OF    DARKNESS 

fall  upon  my  head.  But  nothing  happened.  The 
heavens  do  not  fall  for  such  a  trifle.  Would  they  liave 
fallen,  I  wonder,  if  I  had  rendered  Kurtz  that  justice 
which  was  his  due.''  Hadn't  he  said  he  v/anted  only  jus- 
tice.''  But  I  couldn't.  I  could  not  tell  lier.  It  would 
have  been  too  dark — too  dark  altogether.    ..." 

Marlow  ceased,  and  sat  apart,  indistinct  and  silent,  in 
the  pose  of  a  meditating  Buddha.  Nobody  moved  for  a 
time.  "  We  have  lost  the  first  of  the  ebb,"  said  the  Di- 
rector, suddenly.  I  raised  my  head.  The  offing  was 
barred  by  a  black  bank  of  clouds,  and  the  tranquil  water- 
way leading  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the^earth  flowed 
somber  under  an  overcast  sky — seemed  to  lead  into  the 
heart  of  an  immense  darkness. 


18; 


THE   END   OP  THE   TETHER 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 


For  a  long  time  after  the  course  of  the  steamer  Sofala 
had  been  altered  for  the  land,  the  low  swampy  coast  had 
retained  its  appearance  of  a  mere  smudge  of  darkness 
beyond  a  belt  of  glitter.  The  sunrays  fell  violently 
upon  the  calm  sea — seemed  to  shatter  themselves  upon 
an  adamantine  surface  into  sparkling  dust,  into  a  dazz- 
ling vapor  of  light  that  blinded  the  eye  and  wearied  the 
brain  with  its  unsteady  brightness. 

Captain  YVhalley  did  not  look  at  it.  When  his 
Serang,  approaching  the  roomy  cane  arm-chair  which 
he  filled  capably,  had  informed  him  in  a  low  voice  that 
the  course  v\as  to  be  altered,  he  had  risen  at  once  and 
had  remained  on  his  feet,  face  forward,  while  the  head 
i  of  his  ship  swung  through  a  quarter  of  a  circle.  He 
had  not  uttered  a  single  word,  not  even  the  word  to 
steady  the  helm.  It  waS  the  Serang,  an  elderly,  alert, 
little  3,Ialay,  with  a  very  dark  ,skin,  who  murmured  the 
order  to  the  helmsman.  And  then  slowly  Captain 
Whalley  sat  down  again  in  the  arm-chair  on  the  bridge 
and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  deck  between  his  feet.  iTfiV^ 

He  could  not  hope  to  see  anything  new  upon  this  lane  1* 

of  the  sea.     He  had  been  en  these  coasts  for  the  last 

three  years.     From  Low  Cape  to  Malantan  the  distance 

was  fifty  miles,  six  hours'  steaming  for  the  old  ship  with. 

[  18T  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

the  tide,  or  seven  against.  Then  you  steered  straight 
for  the  land,  and  by-and-by  three  palms  would  appear 
on  the  sky,  tall  and  slim,  and  with  their  disheveled  heads 
in  a  bunch,  as  if  in  confidential  criticism  of  the  dark 
mangroves.  The  Sofala  would  be  headed  towards  tlie 
somber  strip  of  the  coast,  which  at  a  given  moment,  as 
the  ship  closed  with  it  oblique!}-,  would  show  several 
clean  shining  fractures — the  brimful  estuary  of  a  river. 
Then  on  through  a  brown  liquid,  three  parts  water  and 
one  part  black  earth,  on  and  on  between  the  low  shores, 
three  parts  black  earth  and  one  part  brackish  water,  the 
Sofala  would  plow  her  way  up-stream,  as  she  had 
done  once  every  month  for  these  seven  years  or  more, 
long  before  he  was  aware  of  her  existence,  long  before 
lie  had  ever  thought  of  having  anything  to  do  with  her 
and  her  invariable  vo3^ages.  The  old  ship  ought  to  have 
known  the  road  better  than  her  men,  who  had  not  been 
kept  so  long  at  it  without  a  change;  better  than  the 
faithful  Serang,  whom  he  iiad  brought  over  from  his 
last  ship  to  keep  the  captain's  watch;  better  than  lie 
Iiimself,  who  had  been  her  captain  for  the  last  three 
years  only.  She  could  always  be  depended  upon  Lo 
make  her  courses.  Her  compasses  were  never  out.  She 
was  no  trouble  at  all  to  take  about,  as  if  her  great  age 
had  given  her  knowledge,  wisdom,  and  steadiness.  Slie 
made  her  landfalls  to  a  degree  of  the  bearing,  and  al- 
most to  a  minute  of  her  allowed  time.  At  any  moment, 
as  he  sat  on  the  bridge  without  looking  up,  or  lay  sleep- 
less in  his  bed,  simply  by  reckoning  the  days  and  t)ie 
hours  he  could  tell  where  he  was — the  precise  spot  of  the 
[  188  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

beat.  He  knew  it  well  too,  this  monotonous  huckster's 
round,  up  and  down  the  Straits;  he  knew  its  order  and 
its  sights  and  its  people.  Malacca  to  begin  with,  in  at 
daylight  and  out  at  dusk,  to  cross  over  with  a  rigid 
phosphorescent  wake  this  highway  of  the  Far  East. 
Darkness  and  gleams  on  the  water,  clear  stars  on  a  black 
sky,  perhaps  the  lights  of  a  home  steamer  keeping  her 
unswerving  course  in  the  middle,  or  maybe  the  elusive 
shadow  of  a  native  craft  with  her  mat  sails  flitting  by 
silently — and  low  land  on  the  other  side  in  sight 
at  daylight.  At  noon  the  three  palms  of  the  next  place 
of  call,  up  a  sluggish  river.  The  only  white  man  re- 
siding there  was  a  retired  young  sailor,  with  whom  he 
had  become  friendly  in  the  course  of  many  voyages. 
Sixty  miles  farther  on  there  was  another  place  of  call, 
a  deep  bay  with  only  a  couple  of  houses  on  the  beach. 
I  And  so  on,  in  and  out,  picking  up  coastwise  cargo  here 
land  there,  and  finishing  with  a  hundred  miles'  steady 
steaming  through  the  maze  of  an  archipelago  of  small 
islands  up  to  a  large  native  town  at  the  end  of  the  beat. 
There  v/as  a  three  days'  rest  for  the  old  ship  before 
he  started  her  again  in  inverse  order,  seeing  the  same 
shores  from  another  bearing,  hearing  the  same  voices  in 
the  same  places,  back  again  to  the  SofaWs  port  of  regis- 
try on  the  great  highway  to  the  East,  where  he  would 
take  up  a  berth  nearly  opposite  the  big  stone  pile  of 
the  harbor  office  till  it  was  time  to  start  again  on  the 
old  round  of  1600  miles  and  thirty  days.  Not  a  very 
enterprising  hfe,  this,  for  Captain  Whalley,  Henry 
Whalley,  otherwise  Dare-devil  Harry — Whalley  of  the 
[  189  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHEK 

Condor,  a  famous  clipper  in  her  day.  No.  Not  a  ver^ 
enterprising  life  for  a  man  who  had  served  famous  firms, 
who  had  sailed  famous  ships  (more  than  one  or  two  of 
them  his  own)  ;  who  had  made  famous  passages,  had 
been  the  pioneer  of  new  routes  and  new  trades;  who  had 
steered  across  the  unsurveyed  tracts  of  the  South  Seas, 
and  had  seen  the  sun  rise  on  uncharted  islands.  Fifty 
years  at  sea,  and  fortj^  out  in  the  East  ("a  pretty  thor- 
ough apprenticeship,"  he  used  to  remark  smilingly),  had 
made  him  honorably  known  to  a  generation  of  ship- 
owners and  merchants  in  all  the  ports  from  Bombay  clear 
over  to  where  the  East  merges  into  the  West  upon  the 
-coast  of  the  two  Americas.  His  fame  rem-ained  vrrit, 
not  very  large  but  plain  enough,  on  the  Admiraltv 
charts.  Was  there  not  somewhere  between  Australia 
and  China  a  Whalley  Island  and  a  Condor  Reef  .^  On 
that  dangerous  coral  formation  the  celebrated  clipper 
had  hung  stranded  for  three  days,  her  captain  and  crew 
throwing  her  cargo  overboard  with  one  hand  and  with 
the  other,  as  it  were,  keeping  off  her  a  flotilla  of  savage 
war-canoes.  At  that  time  neither  the  island  nor  the  reef 
had  any  official  existence.  Later  the  officers  of  her 
Majesty's  steam  vessel  Fusilier,  dispatched  to  make  a 
survey  of  the  route,  recognized  in  the  adoption  of  these 
tv/o  names  the  enterprise  of  the  man  and  the  solidity  of 
the  ship.  Besides,  as  anyone  who  cares  may  see,  the 
^'  General  Directory,"  vol.  ii.  p.  410,  begins  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  "  IMalotu  or  Whalley  Passage "  with  the 
words :  "  This  advantageous  route,  first  discovered  in 
1850  by  Captain  Whalley  in  the  ship  Condor,''  &c., 
[  190  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE    TETHER 

and  ends  by  recommending  it  warmly  to  sailing  vessels- 
leaving  the  China  ports  for  the  south  in  the  months 
from  December  to  April  inclusive. 

This  was  the  clearest  gain  he  had  out  of  life.  Nothing 
could  rob  him  of  this  kind  of  fame.  The  piercing  of  the 
Isthmus  of  Suez,  like  the  breaking  of  a  dam,  had  let 
in  upon  the  East  a  flood  of  new  ships,  new  men,  new 
methods  of  trade.  It  had  changed  the  face  of  the  East- 
ern seas  and  the  very  spirit  of  their  life;  so  that  his 
early  experiences  meant  nothing  whatever  to  the  new 
generation  of  seamen. 

In  those  bygone  days  he  had  handled  many  thousands 
of  pounds  of  his  employers'  money  and  of  his  own;  he 
had  attended  faithfully,  as  by  law  a  shipmaster  is  ex- 
pected to  do,  to  the  conflicting  interests  of  owners, 
charterers,  and  underwriters.  He  had  never  lost  a  ship 
;or  consented  to  a  shady  transaction;  and  he  had  lasted 
well,  outlasting  in  the  end  the  conditions  that  had  gone 
to  the  making  of  his  name.  He  had  buried  his  wife  (in 
the  Gulf  of  Petchili),  had  married  off  his  daughter  to 
the  man  of  her  unlucky  choice,  and  had  lost  more  than 
an  ample  competence  in  the  crash  of  the  notorious  Tra- 
vancore  and  Deccan  Banking  Corporation,  whose  down- 
fall had  shaken  the  East  like  an  earthquake.  And  he 
vras  sixty-seven  years  old. 

II 

His  age  sat  lightly  enough  on  him;  and  of  his  ruin 
he  was  not  ashamed.  He  had  not  been  alone  to  believe 
in  the  stability  of  the  Banking  Corporation.    Men  whose 

[  191  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

judgment  in  matters  of  finance  was  as  expert  as  his  sea 
manship  had  commended  the  prudence  of  his  invest- 
ments, and  had  themselves  lost  much  money  in  the  great 
failure.  The  only  difference  between  him  and  them  w:is 
that  he  had  lost  his  all.  And  yet  not  his  all.  There 
had  remained  to  him  from  his  lost  fortune  a  very  pretty 
little  bark,  Fair  Maid,  which  he  had  bought  to  occupy 
his  leisure  of  a  retired  sailor — "  to  play  with,"  as  he  ex- 
pressed it  himself. 

He  had  formally  declared  himself  tired  of  the  sea  the 
year  preceding  his  daughter's  marriage.  But  after  the 
young  couple  had  gone  to  settle  in  Melbourne  he  found 
out  that  he  could  not  make  himself  happy  on  shore.  He 
was  too  much  of  a  merchant  sea-captain  for  mere  yacht- 
ing to  satisfy  him.  He  wanted  the  illusion  of  affairs; 
and  his  acquisition  of  the  Fair  Maid  preserved  the  con- 
tinuity of  his  life.  He  introduced  her  to  his  acquaint- 
ances in  various  ports  as  "  m^'  last  command."  When 
he  grew  too  old  to  be  trusted  with  a  ship,  he  would 
lay  her  up  and  go  ashore  to  be  buried,  leaving  directions 
in  his  will  to  have  the  bark  towed  out  and  scuttled 
decently  in  deep  water  on  the  day  of  the  funeral.  His 
daughter  would  not  grudge  him  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  no  stranger  would  handle  his  last  command 
after  him.  With  the  fortune  he  was  able  to  leave  her, 
the  value  of  a  500-ton  bark  was  neither  here  nor  there. 
All  this  would  be  said  with  a  jocular  twinkle  in  his  eye: 
the  vigorous  old  man  had  too  much  vitality  for  the  sen- 
timentalism  of  regret;  and  a  little  wistfully  withal,  be- 
cause he  was  at  home  in  life,  taking  a  genuine  pleasure 
[  192  ] 


w 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

m  its  feelings  and  its  possessions ;  in  the  dignity  of  his 
reputation  and  his  wealth,  in  his  love  for  his  daughter, 
and  in  his  satisfaction  with  the  ship — the  plaything  of 
his  lonely  leisure. 

He  had  the  cabin  arranged  in  accordance  with  his 
simple  ideal  of  comfort  at  sea.  A  big  bookcase  (he  was 
a  great  reader)  occupied  one  side  of  his  stateroom;  the 
portrait  of  his  late  wife,  a  flat  bituminous  oil-painting 
representing  the  profile  and  one  long  black  ringlet  of 
a  young  woman,  faced  his  bedplace.  Three  chronometers 
ticked  him  to  sleep  and  greeted  him  on  waking  with 
the  tiny  competition  of  their  beats.  He  rose  at  five  every 
day.  The  officer  of  the  morning  watch,  drinking  his 
early  cup  of  coffee  aft  by  the  wheel,  would  hear  through 
the  wide  orifice  of  the  copper  ventilators  all  the  splash- 
ings,  blowings,  and  splutterings  of  his  captain's  toilet. 
These  noises  would  be  followed  by  a  sustained  deep 
murmur  of  the  Lord's  Prayer  recited  in  a  loud  earnest 
voice.  Five  minutes  afterwards  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  Captain  Whalley  emerged  out  of  the  companion- 
hatchway.  Invariably  he  paused  for  a  while  on  the 
stairs,  looking  all  round  at  the  horizon ;  upwards  at  the 
trim  of  the  sails;  inhaling  deep  draughts  of  the  fresh 
air.  Only  then  he  would  step  out  on  the  poop,  acknowl- 
edging  the  hand  raised  to  the  peak  of  the  cap  with  a 
majestic  and  benign  "  Good  morning  to  you."  He 
walked  the  deck  till  eight  scrupulously.  Sometimes,  not 
above  twice  a  year,  he  had  to  use  a  thick  cudgel-like 
stick  on  account  of  a  stiffness  in  the  hip — a  slight  touch 
of  rheumatism,  he  supposed.  Otherwise  he  knew  nothing 
[  193  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

of  the  ills  of  the  flesh.  At  the  ringing  of  the  brcrJ-ifast 
bell  he  went  below  to  feed  his  canaries,  wind  up  the 
chronometers,  and  take  the  head  of  the  table.  From 
there  he  had  before  his  e^'es  the  big  carbon  photographs 
of  his  daughter,  her  husband,  and  two  fat-legged  babies 
— his  grandchildren — set  in  black  frames  into  the  maple- 
wood  bulkheads  of  the  cuddy.  After  breakfast  he  dusted 
the  glass  over  these  portraits  himself  with  a  cloth,  and 
brushed  the  oil  painting  of  his  wife  vdth  a  plummet  kept 
suspended  from  a  small  brass  hook  by  the  side  of  the 
heavy  gold  frame.  Then  with  the  door  of  his  state- 
room shut,  he  Avould  sit  down  on  the  couch  under  the 
portrait  to  read  a  chapter  out  of  a  thick  pocket  Bible 
— ^her  Bible.  But  on  some  days  he  only  sat  there  for 
half  an  hour  with  his  finger  between  the  leaves  and  the 
closed  book  resting  on  his  knees.  Perhaps  he  had  re- 
membered suddenly  how  fond  of  boat-sailing  she  used 

to  be. 

She  had  been  a  real  shipmate  and  a  true  woman  too. 
It  was  like  an  article  of  faith  with  him  that  there  never 
had  been,  and  never  could  be,  a  brighter,  cheerier  home 
anyw^here  afloat  or  ashore  than  his  home  under  the  poop- 
deck  of  the  Condor,  with  the  big  main  cabin  all  white 
and  gold,  garlanded  as  if  for  a  perpetual  festival  with 
an  unfading  wreath.  She  had  decorated  the  center  of 
every  panel  with  a  cluster  of  home  flowers.  It  took  her 
a  twelvemonth  to  go  round  the  cuddy  with  this  labor 
of  love.  To  him  it  had  remained  a  marvel  of  painting, 
the  highest  achievement  of  taste  and  skill;  and  as  to 
old  Swinburne,  his  mate,  every  time  he  came  down  to 

r  194  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

his  meals  he  stood  transfixed  with  admiration  before  the 
progress  of  the  work.  You  could  almost  smell  these 
roses,  he  declared,  sniffing  the  faint  flavor  of  turpen'dne 
which  at  that  time  pervaded  the  saloon,  and  (as  he  con- 
fessed afterv/ards)  made  him  som^ev/hat  less  hearty  than 
usual  in  tackling  his  food.  But  there  was  nothin^j  of 
the  sort  to  interfere  with  his  enjojanent  of  her  singing. 
"  ]Mrs.  Whalley  is  a  regular  out-and-out  nightingale, 
sir,"  he  would  pronounce  vrith  a  judicial  air  after  listen- 
ing profoundly  over  the  sk3dight  to  the  very  end  of  the 
piece.  In  fine  weather,  in  the  second  dog-watch,  the  two 
men  could  hear  her  trills  and  roulades  going  on  to  the 
accompaniment  of  the  piano  in  the  cabin.  On  the  very 
day  they  got  engaged  he  had  written  to  London  for  the 
instrument;  but  they  had  been  married  for  over  a  year 
before  it  reached  them,  coming  out  round  the  Cape. 
The  big  case  made  part  of  the  first  direct  general  cargo 
landed  in  Hongkong  harbor — an  event  that  to  the  men 
who  walked  the  busy  quays  of  to-day  seemed  as  hazily 
remote  as  the  dark  ages  of  histor3^  But  Captain  Whal- 
ley could  in  a  half  hour  of  solitude  live  a.gain  all  his 
life,  with  its  romance,  its  idyl,  and  its  sorroy>^.  He  had 
to  close  her  eyes  himself.  She  went  away  from  under 
the  ensign  like  a  sailor's  wife,  a  sailor  herself  at  heart. 
He  had  read  the  service  over  her,  out  of  her  own  prayer- 
book,  without  a  break  in  his  voice.  When  he  raised  his 
ejes  he  could  see  old  Swinburne  facing  him  with  his  cap 
pressed  to  his  breast,  and  his  rugged,  weather-beaten, 
impassive  face  streaming  with  drops  of  water  like  a 
lump  of  chipped  red  granite  in  a  shower.     It  was  all 

[  195  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE    TETHER 

very  well  for  that  old  sea-dog  to  cry.  He  had  to  read 
on  to  the  end ;  but  after  the  splash  lie  did  not  remember 
much  of  what  happened  for  the  next  fev/  daj^s.  An 
elderly  sailor  of  the  crew,  deft  at  needlework,  put  to- 
gether a  mourning  frock  for  the  child  out  of  one  of 
her  black  skirts. 

He  was  not  likely  to  forget;  but  you  cannot  dam  up 
life  like  a  sluggish  stream.  It  will  break  out  and  flow 
over  a  man's  troubles,  it  will  close  upon  a  sorrow  like 
the  sea  upon  a  dead  body,  no  matter  how  much  love  has 
^ne  to  the  bottom.  And  the  world  is  not  bad.  People 
had  been  very  kind  to  him ;  especiaih^  Mrs.  Gardner,  the 
wife  of  the  senior  partner  in  Gardner,  Patteson,  &  Co., 
the  owners  of  the  Condor.  It  was  she  who  volunteered 
to  look  after  the  Httle  one,  and  in  due  course  took  her 
to  England  (something  of  a  journey  in  those  days, 
even  by  the  overland  mail  route)  with  her  own  girls  to 
finish  her  education.  It  was  ten  years  before  he  saw  her 
again. 

As  a  little  child  she  had  never  been  frightened  of  bad 
weather;  she  would  beg  to  be  taken  up  on  deck  in  the 
})oso2n  of  his  oilskin  coat  to  watch  the  big  seas  hurling 
thcfmselves  upon  tlie  Condor.  The  swirl  and  crash  of  the 
waves  seemed  to  fill  her  small  soul  with  a  breathless  de- 
light. *'  A  good  boy  spoiled,"  he  used  to  say  of  her  in 
joke.  He  had  named  her  Ivy  because  of  the  sound  of 
the  word,  and  obscurel}^  fascinated  by  a  vague  associa- 
Sion  of  ideas.  She  had  twined  herself  tightly  round  his 
heart,  and  he  intended  her  to  cling  close  to  her  father  as 
%»  9,  tower  of  strength ;  forgetting,  while  she  was  little, 

[  196  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

that  in  the  nature  of  things  she  would  probably  elect 
to  cling  to  someone  else.  But  he  loved  life  well  enough 
for  even  that  event  to  give  him  a  certain  satisfaction, 
apart  from  liis  more  intimate  feeling  of  loss. 

After  he  had  purchased  the  Fair  Maid  to  occupy  his 
loneliness,  he  hastened  to  accept  a  rather  unprofitable 
freight  to  Australia  simply  for  the  opportunity  of  seeing 
his  daughter  in  her  own  home.  What  made  him  dis- 
satisfied there  was  not  to  see  that  she  clung  now  to  some- 
bod}"  else,  but  that  the  prop  she  had  selected  seemed  on 
closer  examination  "  a  rather  poor  stick  " — even  in  the 
matter  of  health.  He  disliked  his  son-in-law's  studied 
civility  perhaps  more  than  his  method  of  handling  the 
sum  of  money  he  had  given  Ivy  at  her  marriage.  Brut 
ci  liis  apprehensions  he  said  nothing.  Only  on  the  day 
of  his  departure,  w'Jb  tb/s  luiU -door  open  all  ready,  hold- 
ing her  hands  and  looking  steadily  into  her  eyes,  he 
had  said,  "  You  know,  my  dear,  all  I  have  is  for  you  and 
the  chicks.  Mind  you  v>rite  to  me  openly."  She  had 
answered  liim  by  an  almost  imperceptible  movement  of 
her  head.  She  resembled  her  mother  in  the  color  of  her 
ejes,  and  in  character — and  also  in  this,  that  she  under- 
stocd  him  without  manj^  words. 

Sure  enough  she  had  to  write ;  and  some  of  these  letters 
made  Captain  Whalley  lift  his  white  eye-brows.  For 
the  rest  he  considered  he  was  reaping  the  true  reward  of 
his  life  by  being  thus  able  to  produce  on  demand  what- 
ever was  needed.  He  had  not  enjoyed  himself  so  much 
in  a  way  since  his  wife  had  died.  Characteristically 
enough  his  son-in-law's  punctuality  in  failure  caused  hiia 

[  197  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

at  a  distance  to  feel  a  sort  of  kindness  towards  the  man. 
The  fellow  was  so  perpetually  being  jammed  on  a  lee 
shore  that  to  charge  it  all  to  his  reckless  navigation 
would  be  manifestly  unfair.  No,  no !  He  knew  well 
what  that  meant.  It  was  bad  luck.  His  own  had  been 
simply  marvelous,  but  he  had  seen  in  his  life  too  many 
good  men — seamen  and  others — go  under  with  the  sheer 
weight  of  bad  luck  not  to  recognize  the  fatal  signs.  For 
all  that,  he  was  cogitating  on  the  best  way  of  tj'ing  up 
very  strictly  every  penny  he  had  to  leave,  when,  with  a 
preliminary  rumble  of  rumors  ( whose  first  sound  reached 
him  in  Shanghai  as  it  happened),  the  shock  of  the  big 
failure  came;  and,  after  passing  through  the  phases  of 
stupor,  of  incredulity,  of  indignation,  he  had  to  accept 
the  fact  that  he  had  nothing  to  speak  of  to  leave. 

Upon  that,  as  if  he  had  only  waited  for  this  catas- 
trophe, the  unlucky  man,  away  there  in  Melbourne,  gave 
tip  his  unprofitable  game,  and  sat  down — in  an  invalid's 
bath-chair  at  that  too.  "  He  will  never  walk  again," 
wrote  the  wife.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  Captain 
Whalley  was  a  bit  staggered. 

The  Fair  Maid  had  to  go  to  work  in  bitter  earnest  now. 
It  was  no  longer  a  matter  of  preserving  alive  the  memory 
of  Dare-devil  Harry  Whalley  in  the  Eastern  Seas,  or 
of  keeping  an  old  man  in  pocket-money  and  clothes,  with, 
perhaps,  a  bill  for  a  few  hundred  first-class  cigars 
thrown  in  at  the  end  of  the  year.  He  would  have  to 
buckle-to,  and  keep  her  going  hard  on  a  scant  allowance 
of  gilt  for  the  ginger-bread  scrolls  at  her  stem  and 
stem. 

[  198] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

This  necessity  opened  his  eyes  to  the  fundamental 
changes  of  the  world.  Of  his  past  only  the  familiar 
names  remained,  here  and  there,  but  the  things  and  the 
men,  as  he  had  known  them,  were  gone.  The  name  of 
Gardner,  Patteson,  &  Co.  was  still  displayed  on  the 
walls  of  warehouses  by  the  waterside,  on  the  brass  plates 
and  window-panes  in  the  business  quarters  of  more  than 
one  Eastern  port,  but  there  was  no  longer  a  Gardner 
or  a  Patteson  in  the  firm.  There  was  no  longer  for  Cap- 
tain Whalley  an  arm-chair  and  a  welcome  in  the  private 
office,  with  a  bit  of  business  ready  to  be  put  in  the  way 
of  an  old  friend,  for  the  sake  of  bygone  services.  The 
husbands  of  the  Gardner  girls  sat  behind  the  desks  in 
that  room  where,  long  after  he  had  left  the  employ,  he 
had  kept  his  right  of  entrance  in  the  old  man's  time. 
Their  ships  now  had  yellow  funnels  with  black  tops, 
and  a  time-table  of  appointed  routes  like  a  confounded 
service  of  tramways.  The  winds  of  December  and  June 
were  all  one  to  them;  their  captains  (excellent  young 
men  he  doubted  not)  were,  to  be  sure,  familiar  with 
Whalley  Island,  because  of  late  years  the  Government 
had  established  a  white  fixed  light  on  the  north  end  (with 
a  red  danger  sector  over  the  Condor  Reef),  but  most  of 
them  would  have  been  extremely  surprised  to  hear  that 
a  fiesh-and-blood  Whalley  still  existed — an  old  man 
going  about  the  world  trying  to  pick  up  a  cargo  here 
and  there  for  his  little  bark. 

And  everywhere  it  was  the  same.  Departed  the  men 
who  would  have  nodded  appreciatively  at  the  mention 
of  his  name,  and  would  have  thought  themselves  bound 

r.  199  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

in  honor  to  do  something  for  Dare-devil  Harry  Whaiiey. 
Departed  the  opportunities  which  he  would  have  known 
how  to  seize ;  and  gone  with  them  the  w  hite-winged  flock 
of  clippers  that  lived  in  the  boisterous  uncertain  life  of 
the  winds,  skimming  big  fortunes  out  of  the  foam  of 
the  sea.  In  a  world  that  pared  down  the  profits  to  an 
irreducible  minimum,  in  a  world  that  was  able  to  count 
its  disengaged  tonnage  twice  over  every  day,  and  In 
which  lean  charters  were  snapped  up  by  cable  three 
months  in  advance,  there  were  no  chances  of  fortune  for 
»n  individual  wandering  haphazard  with  a  little  bark 
— ^hardly  indeed  any  room  to  exist. 

He  found  it  more  difficult  from  year  to  year.  He  suf- 
fered greatly  from  the  smallness  of  remittances  he  was 
able  to  send  his  daughter.  ^leantime  he  had  given  up 
good  cigars,  and  even  in  the  matter  of  inferior  cheroots 
limited  himself  to  six  a  day.  He  never  told  her  of  his 
difficulties,  and  she  never  enlarged  upon  lier  struggle 
to  live.  Their  confidence  in  each  other  needed  no  ex- 
planations, and  their  perfect  understanding  endured 
without  protestations  of  gratitude  or  regret.  He  would 
have  been  shocked  if  she  had  taken  it  into  her  head  to 
thank  him  in  so  many  words,  but  he  found  it  perfectly 
natural  that  she  should  tell  him  she  needed  two  hundred 
pounds. 

He  had  come  in  with  the  Fair  Maid  in  ballast  to  look 
for  a  freight  in  the  SofaWs  port  of  registry,  and  her 
letter  met  him  there.  Its  tenor  was  that  it  was  no  use 
mincing  matters.  Her  only  resource  was  in  opening  a 
bcai'ding-house,   for  which   the   prospects,   she  judged, 

[  200  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

were  good.  Good  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  make  her  tell 
him  frankly  that  with  two  hundred  pounds  she  could 
make  a  start.  He  had  torn  the  envelope  open,  hastily, 
on  deck,  where  it  was  handed  to  him  by  the  ship- 
chandler's  runner,  who  had  brought  his  mail  at  the  mo- 
ment of  anchoring.  For  the  second  time  in  his  life  he 
was  appalled,  and  remained  stock-still  at  the  cabin  door 
with  the  paper  trembling  between  his  fingers.  Open  a 
boarding-house  !  Two  hundred  pounds  for  a  start !  The 
only  resource!  And  he  did  not  know  v*^here  to  lay  his 
hands  on  two  hundred  pence. 

All  that  night  Captain  Whalley  walked  the  poop  of 
his  anchored  ship,  as  though  he  had  been  about  to  close 
^ith  the  land  in  thick  weather,  and  uncertain  of  his 
position  after  a  run  of  many  gray  days  without  a  sight 
of  sun,  moon,  or  stars.  The  black  night  twinkled  with 
the  guiding  lights  of  seamen  and  the  steady  straight 
lines  of  lights  on  shore;  and  all  around  the  Fair  Maid 
the  riding  lights  of  ships  cast  trembling  trails  upon  the 
water  of  the  roadstead.  Captain  Whalley  saw  not  a 
^leam  anywhere  till  the  dawn  broke  and  he  found  out 
that  his  clothing  was  soaked  through  with  the  heavy 
<lew. 

His  ship  was  awake.  He  stopped  short,  stroked  his 
wet  beard,  and  descended  the  poop  ladder  back^vards, 
with  tired  feet.  At  the  sight  of  him  the  chief  officer, 
lounging  about  sleepily  on  the  quarterded^,  remained 
open-mouthed  in  tJUe  middle  of  a  great  early-morning" 
yawn. 

''  Good  morning  to  you,"  pronounced  Captain  WhaJ- 

[  20^   ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

ley  solemnly,  passing  into  the  cabin.  But  he  checked 
himself  in  the  doorway,  and  without  looking  back,  "  By 
the  bye,"  he  said,  "  there  should  be  an  empty  wooden 
case  put  away  in  the  lazarette.  It  has  not  been  broken 
up — has  it?  " 

The  mate  shut  his  mouth,  and  then  asked  as  if  dazed, 
"What  empty  case,  sir?" 

"  A  big  flat  packing-case  belonging  to  that  painting  in 
my  room.  Let  it  be  taken  up  on  deck  and  tell  the 
carpenter  to  look  it  over.  I  may  want  to  use  it  before 
long." 

The  chief  officer  did  not  stir  a  limb  till  he  had  heard 
the  door  of  the  captain's  state-room  slam  within  the 
cuddy.  Then  he  beckoned  aft  the  second  mate  with  his 
forefinger  to  tell  him  that  there  was  something  "  in  the 
wind." 

When  the  bell  rang  Captain  Whalley's  authoritative 
voice  boom.ed  out  through  a  closed  door,  "  Sit  down  and 
don't  wait  for  m.e."  And  his  impressed  officers  took  their 
places,  exchanging  looks  and  whispers  across  the  table. 
What!  No  breakfast?  And  after  apparently  knock- 
ing about  all  night  on  deck,  too !  Clearl}^,  there  v.as 
something  in  the  wind.  In  the  skylight  above  their 
heads,  bowed  earnestly  over  the  plates,  three  wire  cages 
rocked  and  rattled  to  the  restless  jumping  of  the  hungry 
canaries ;  and  they  could  detect  the  sounds  of  their  "  old 
man's  "  deliberate  movements  within  his  state-room.  Cap- 
tain Whalley  was  methodically  winding  up  the  chro- 
nometers, dusting  the  portrait  of  his  late  wife,  getting 
a  clean  white  shirt  out  of  the  drawers,  making  himself 
[  202  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

read}"  in  his  punctilious  unhurried  manner  to  go  ashore. 
He  could  not  have  swallowed  a  single  mouthful  of  food 
that  morning.  He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  the 
Fail'  Maid. 

Ill 

Just  at  that  time  the  Japanese  were  casting  far  and 
wide  for  ships  of  European  build,  and  he  had  no  diffi- 
culty in  finding  a  purchaser,  a  speculator  who  drove  a 
hard  bargain,  but  paid  cash  down  for  the  Fair  Maid, 
r>  ith  a  view  to  a  profitable  resale.  Thus  it  came  about 
that  Captain  Whalley  found  himself  on  a  certain  after- 
noon descending  the  steps  of  one  of  the  most  important 
post-offices  of  the  East  wdth  a  slip  of  bluish  paper  in  his 
hand.  This  w^as  the  receipt  of  a  registered  letter  en- 
closing a  draft  for  two  hundred  pounds,  and  addressed 
to  Melbourne.  Captain  Whalley  pushed  the  paper  into 
his  waistcoat-pocket,  took  his  stick  from  under  his  arm, 
and  walked  down  the  street. 

It  was  a  recently  opened  and  untidy  thoroughfare  with 
rudimentary  side-walks  and  a  soft  layer  of  dust  cushion- 
ing the  whole  width  of  the  road.  One  end  touched  the 
slummy  street  of  Chinese  shops  near  the  harbor,  the  other 
drove  straight  on,  without  houses,  for  a  couple  of  miles^ 
through  patches  of  jungle-like  vegetation,  to  the  jard 
gates  of  the  new  Consolidated  Docks  Company.  The 
crude  frontages  of  the  new  Government  buildings  alter- 
nated with  the  blank  fencing  of  vacant  plots,  and  the 
view  of  the  sky  seemed  to  give  an  added  spaciousness  to 
the  broad  vista.  It  was  empty  and  shunned  by  natives 
[  203   ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

after  business  hours,  as  though  they  had  expected  to 
see  one  of  the  tigers  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  New 
Waterworks  on  the  hill  coming  at  a  loping  canter  down 
the  middle  to  get  a  Chinese  shopkeeper  for  supper.  Cap- 
tain Whalley  was  not  dwarfed  by  the  solitude  of  the 
grandly  planned  street.  He  had  too  fine  a  presence  for 
that.  He  was  only  a  lonely  figure  walking  purposefully, 
with  a  great  white  beard  like  a  pilgrim,  and  with  a  thick 
stick  that  resembled  a  weapon.  On  one  side  the  new 
Courts  of  Justice  had  a  low  and  unadorned  portico  of 
squat  columns  half  concealed  by  a  few  old  trees  left  in 
the  approach.  On  the  other  the  pavilion  wings  of  the 
new  Colonial  Treasury  came  out  to  the  line  of  the  street. 
But  Captain  Whalley,  who  had  now  no  ship  and  no 
home,  remembered  in  passing  that  on  that  A-ery  site 
when  he  first  came  out  from  England  there  had  stood  a 
fishing  village,  a  few  mat  huts  erected  on  piles  between 
a  muddy  tidal  creek  and  a  miry  pathway  that  went 
writhing  into  a  tangled  wilderness  without  a.ny  docks  or 
waterworks. 

No  ship — no  home.  And  his  poor  Ivy  away  there  had 
no  home  either.  A  boarding-house  is  no  sort  of  home 
though  it  may  get  you  a  living.  His  feelings  were 
horribly  rasped  by  the  idea  of  the  boardin^'^^ouse.  In 
his  rank  of  life  he  had  that  truly  aristocratic  tempera- 
ment characterized  by  a  scorn  of  vulgar  gentility  and 
bj  prejudiced  views  as  to  the  derogatory  nature  of  cer- 
tain occupations.  For  his  own  part  he  had  always  pre-  i 
ferred  sailing  merchant  ships  (which  is  a  straight-  \ 
forward  occupation)  to  buying  and  selling  merchandise^    j 

r  204  ]  i 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

of  which  the  essence  is  to  get  the  better  of  somebody  in  a 
bargain — an  undignified  trial  of  wits  at  best.  His  father 
had  been  Colonel  Whallej  (retired)  of  the  H.  E.  I.  Com- 
pany's service,  with  very  slender  means  besides  his  pen- 
sion, but  with  distinguished  connections.  He  could  re- 
member as  a  boy  how  frequently  waiters  at  the  inns,  coun- 
try tradesmen  and  small  people  of  that  sort,  used  to  "  My 
lord  "  the  old  warrior  on  the  strength  of  his  appear- 
ance. 

Captain  Whalley  himself  (he  would  have  entered  the 
Nav}^  if  Iiis  father  had  not  died  before  he  was  fourteen) 
had  something  of  a  grand  air  which  would  have  suited 
an  old  and  glorious  admiral;  but  he  became  lost  like  a 
^traw  in  the  eddy  of  a  brook  amongst  the  swarm  of 
brown  and  yellow  humanity  filling  a  thoroughfare,  that 
by  contrast  with  the  vast  and  empty  avenue  he  had  left 
seemed  as  narrow  as  a  lane  and  absolutely  riotous  with 
life.  The  walls  of  the  houses  were  blue;  the  shops  of 
the  Chinamen  yawned  like  cavernous  lairs;  heaps  of 
nondescript  merchandise  overflowed  the  gloom  of  the 
long  range  of  arcades,  and  the  fiery  serenity  of  sunset 
took  the  middle  of  the  street  from  end  to  end  with  a 
glow  like  the  reflection  of  a  fire.  It  fell  on  the  bright 
colors  and  the  dark  faces  of  the  bare-footed  crowd,  on 
the  pallid  yellow  backs  of  the  half-naked  jostling  coolies, 
on  the  accouterments  of    a    tall    Sikh    trooper  with    a 

parted  beard  and  fierce  mustaches  on  sentry  before  the 
gate  of  the  police  compound.  Looming  very  big  above 
the  heads  in  a  red  haze  of  dust,  the  tightly  packed  car 
of  the  cable  tramway  navigated  cautiously  up  the  hu- 
[  205  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

man  stream,  with  the  incessant  blare  of  its  horn,  in  the 
manner  of  a  steamer  groping  in  a  fog. 

Captain  Whalley  emerged  like  a  diver  on  the  other 
side,  and  in  the  desert  shade  between  the  walls  of  closed 
warehouses  removed  his  hat  to  cool  his  brow.  A  certain 
disrepute  attached  to  the  calling  of  a  landlady  of  a 
boarding-house.  These  women  were  said  to  be  rapacious, 
unscrupulous,  untruthful;  and  though  he  contemned  no 
class  of  his  fellow-creatures — God  forbid! — these  were 
suspicions  to  which  it  was  unseemly  that  a  Whalley 
should  lay  herself  open.  He  had  not  expostulated  with 
her,  however.  He  was  confident  she  shared  his  feelings; 
he  was  sorry  for  her;  he  trusted  her  judgment;  he  con- 
sidered it  a  merciful  dispensation  that  he  could  help  her 
once  more, — but  in  his  aristocratic  heart  of  hearts  he 
would  have  found  it  more  easy  to  reconcile  himiself  to  the 
idea  of  her  turning  seamstress.  Vaguely  he  remembered 
reading  years  ago  a  touching  piece  called  the  "  Song  of 
the  Shirt."  It  was  all  very  well  making  songs  about 
poor  women.  The  granddaughter  of  Colonel  Whalley, 
the  landlady  of  a  boarding-house  !  Pooh  !  He  replaced  i 
his  hat,  dived  into  two  pockets,  and  stopping  a  moment 
to  apply  a  flaring  m.atch  to  the  end  of  a  cheap  cheroot, 
blew  an  embittered  cloud  of  smoke  at  a  world  that  could 
hold  such  surprises. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain — that  she  was  the  own 
child  of  a  clever  mother.  Now  he  had  got  over  the 
wrench  of  parting  with  his  ship,  he  perceived  clearly 
that  such  a  step  had  been  unavoidable.  Perhaps  he  had 
been  growing  aware  of  it  all  along  with  an  unconfessed 
[  206  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

knowledge.  But  she,  far  away  there,  must  have  had 
an  intuitive  perception  of  it,  with  the  pluck  to  face  that 
truth  and  the  courage  to  speak  out — all  the  qualities 
which  had  made  her  mother  a  woman  of  such  excellent 
counsel.  »  tj  ^.oo-d. 

It  would  have  had  to  come  to  that  in  tne  end!  It  wa,s 
fortunate  she  had  forced  his  hand.  In  another  year  or 
tv.o  it  would  have  been  an  uttcrl}^  barren  sale.  To  keep 
the  ship  going  he  had  been  involving  himself  deeper 
every  year.  He  was  defenseless  before  the  insidious  work 
of  adversity,  to  whose  more  open  assaults  he  could  pre- 
sent a  firm  front;  like  a  cliff  that  stands  unmoved  the 
open  battering  of  the  sea,  with  a  lofty  ignorance  of  the 
treacherous  backwash  undermining  its  base.  As  it  was, 
every  liability  satisfied,  her  request  answered,  and  owing 
no  man  a  penny,  there  remained  to  him  from  the  pro- 
ceeds a  sum  of  five  hundred  pounds  put  away  safety.  In 
addition  he  had  upon  his  person  some  forty  odd  dollars 
— enough  to  pay  his  hotel  bill,  providing  he  did  not 
linger  too  long  in  the  modest  bedroom  where  he  had 
taken  refuge. 

Scantily  furnished,  and  with  a  waxed  floor,  it  opened 
into  one  of  the  side-verandas.  The  straggling  building 
of  bricks,  as  airy  as  a  bird-cage,  resounded  with  the 
incessant  flapping  of  rattan  screens  worried  by  the  wind 
between  the  white- washed  square  pillars  of  the  sea-front 
The  rooms  were  lofty,  a  ripple  of  sunshine  flowed  ovei 
the  ceilings ;  and  the  periodical  invasions  of  tourists  from 
some  passenger  steamer  in  the  harbor  flitted  through  the 
wind-swept  dusk  of  the  apartments  >vith  the  tumult  of 

[  207  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

their  unfamiliar  voices  and  impermanent  presences,  likt 
relays  of  migratory  shades  condemned  to  speed  headlong 
round  the  earth  without  leaving  a  trace.  The  babble 
of  their  irruptions  ebbed  out  as  suddenly  as  it  had  arisen ; 
the  draughty  corridors  and  the  long  chairs  of  the  ve- 
randas knew  their  sight-seeing  hurry  or  their  prostrate 
repose  no  more;  and  Captain  Whalley,  substantial  and 
dignified,  left  wellnigh  alone  in  the  vast  hotel  by  each 
light-hearted  skurry,  felt  more  and  more  like  a  stranded 
tourist  with  no  aim  in  view,  like  a  forlorn  traveler  with- 
out a  home.  In  the  solitude  of  his  room  he  smoked 
thoughtfully,  gazing  at  the  two  sea-chests  which  held  all 
that  he  could  call  his  own  in  this  world.  A  thick  roll  of 
charts  in  a  sheath  of  sailcloth  leaned  in  a  corner;  the 
flat  packing-case  contaming  the  portrait  in  oils  and 
the  three  carbon  photograplis  had  been  pushed  under 
the  bed.  He  was  tired  of  discussing  terms,  of  assisting 
at  surveys,  of  all  the  routine  of  the  business.  What  to 
the  other  parties  was  merely  the  sale  of  a  ship  was  to  i 
him  a  momentous  event  involving  a  radically  new  view  of 
existence.  He  knew  that  after  this  ship  there  would 
be  no  other;  and  the  hopes  of  his  youth,  ihe  exercise  of 
his  abilities,  every  feeling  and  achievemicnt  of  his  man- 
hood, had  been  indissolubly  connected  witli  ships.  He 
had  served  ships;  he  had  owned  ships;  and  even  the 
years  of  his  actual  retirement  from  the  sea  l.cA  been  made 
bearable  by  the  idea  that  he  had  only  to  s  retch  out  his 
hand  full  of  money  to  get  a  ship.  He  had  been  at 
liberty  to  feel  as  though  he  were  the  ov»ner  of  all  the 
chips  in  the  world.  The  selling  of  this  one  was  weary 
[  ^08  1 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

work;  but  when  she  passed  from  him  at  last,  when  he 
signed  the  last  receipt,  it  w^as  as  though  all  the  ships 
had  gone  out  of  the  world  together,  leaving  him  on  the 
sliore  of  inaccessible  oceans  with  seven  hundred  pounds 
in  his  hands. 

Striding  firmly,  without  haste,  along  the  quay.  Captain 
Whalley  averted  his  glances  from  the  familiar  roadstead. 
Tvro  generations  of  seamen  born  since  his  first  day  at 
sea  stood  between  him  and  all  these  ships  at  the  anchor- 
age. His  own  was  sold,  and  he  had  been  asking  him- 
i  self.  What  next? 

From  the  feeling  of  loneliness,  of  inward  emptiness, 
-^and  of  loss  too,  as  if  his  ver\^  soul  had  been  taken 
out  of  him  forcibly, — there  had  sprung  at  first  a  desire 
to  start  right  off  and  join  his  daughter.  "  Here  are  the 
last  pence,"  he  would  say  to  her ;  *'  take  them,  my  dear. 
And  here's  your  old  father :  you  must  take  him  too." 

His  soul  recoiled,  as  if  afraid  of  w^hat  lay  hidden  at 
the  bottom  of  this  impulse.  Give  up !  Never !  When 
one  is  thoroughly  weary  all  sorts  of  nonsense  come  into 
one's  head.  A  pretty  gift  it  w^ould  have  been  for  a  poor 
woman — this  seven  hundred  pounds  with  the  incumbrance 
of  a  hale  old  fellow  more  than  likely  to  last  for  years 
and  years  to  come.  Was  he  not  as  fit  to  die  in  harness 
as  any  of  the  youngsters  in  charge  of  these  anchored 
ships  out  vender.?  He  was  as  solid  now  as  ever  he  had 
been.  But  as  to  who  would  give  him  work  to  do,  that 
was  another  matter.  Were  he,  with  his  appearance  and 
antecedents,  to  go  about  looking  for  a  junior's  berth, 
people,  he  was  afraid,  would  not  take  him  seriously;  or 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

else  if  he  succeeded  in  impressing  them,  he  would  maybe 
obtain  their  pity,  which  would  be  like  stripping  your- 
self naked  to  be  kicked.  He  was  not  anxious  to  give 
himself  away  for  less  tlian  nothing.  He  had  no  use 
for  anybody's  pity.  On  the  other  hand,  a  commanJ- 
the  only  thing  he  could  tr}^  for  with  due  regard  for 
common  decency — was  not  likely  to  be  lying  in  wait  for 
him  at  the  corner  of  the  next  street.  Commands  don't 
go  a-begging  novv^adaj's.  Ever  since  he  had  come  ashore 
to  carr}^  cut  the  business  of  the  sale  he  had  kept  his 
ears  open,  but  had  heard  no  hint  of  one  being  vacant 
in  the  port.  And  even  if  there  had  been  one,  his  suc- 
cessful past  itself  stood  in  his  way.  He  had  been  Lis 
ov.n  employer  too  long.  The  only  credential  he  could 
produce  was  the  testimony  of  his  whole  life.  Wliat 
better  recommendation  could  anyone  require.^  But 
vaguely  he  felt  that  the  unique  document  would  be 
looked  upon  as  an  archaic  curiosity  of  the  Eastern 
waters,  a  screed  traced  in  obsolete  words — in  a  half -for- 
gotten language. 

IV 

Revolving  these  thoughts,  he  strolled  on  near  the  rail- 
ings of  the  quay,  broad-chested,  without  a  stoop,  as 
though  his  big  shoulders  had  never  felt  the  burden  of 
the  loads  that  miust  be  carried  between  the  cradle  and 
the  grave.  No  single  betra^'ing  fold  or  line  of  care 
disfigured  the  reposeful  modeling  of  his  face.  It  was 
full  and  untanned;  and  the  upper  part  emerged,  mas- 
sively quiet,  out  of  the  downward  flow^  of  silvery  hair, 
[  210  ] 


THE    END    OF    TKE    TETHER 

with  the  striking  delicacy  of  its  clear  complexion  and 
the  powerful  width  of  the  forehead.  The  first  cast  of 
his  glance  fell  on  you  candid  and  swift,  like  a  boy's; 
but  because  of  the  ragged  snowy  thatch  of  the  eyebrows 
the  affability  of  his  attention  acquired  the  character  of 
a  keen  and  searching  scrutiny.  With  age  he  had  put 
on  flesh  a  little,  had  increased  his  girth  like  an  old  tree 
presenting  no  symptoms  of  decay ;  and  even  the  opulent, 
lustrous  ripple  of  white  hairs  upon  his  chest  seemed  an 
attribute  of  unquenchable  vitalit}^  and  vigor. 

Once  rather  proud  of  his  great  bodily  strength,  and 
even  of  his  personal  appearance,  conscious  of  his  w^orth, 
and  iirm  in  his  rectitude,  there  had  remained  to  him, 
like  the  heritage  of  departed  prosperity,  the  tranquil 
bearing  of  a  m.an  who  had  proved  himself  fit  in  every 
sort  of  way  for  the  life  of  his  choice.  He  strode  on 
squarely  under  the  projecting  brim  of  an  ancient  Panama 
hat.  It  had  a  low  crown,  a  crease  through  its  whole 
diameter,  a  narrow  black  ribbon.  Imperishable  and  a 
little  discolored,  this  headgear  made  it  easy  to  pick  him 
out  from  afar  on  thronged  wharves  and  in  the  busy 
streets.  He  had  never  adopted  the  comparatively  modern 
fashion  of  pipeclayed  cork  helmets.  He  disliked  the 
form;  and  he  hoped  he  could  manage  to  keep  a  cool 
head  to  the  end  of  his  life  without  all  these  contrivances 

I  for  hygienic  ventilation.  His  hair  was  cropped  close, 
his  linen  always  of  immaculate  whiteness ;  a  suit  of  thin 
gray  flannel,  worn  threadbare  but  scrupulously  brushed, 
floated  about  his  burly  limbs,  adding  to  his  bulk  by  the 

I   looseness  of  its  cut.     The  years  had  mellowed  the  good-= 

I  t  211  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

humored,  imperturbable  audacity  of  his  prime  into  a 
temper  carelessly  serene;  and  the  leisurely  tapping  of 
his  iron-shod  stick  accompanied  his  footfalls  with  a  self- 
confident  sound  on  the  flagstones.  It  was  impossible  to 
connect  such  a  fine  presence  and  this  unrufiied  aspect 
V.  ith  the  belittling  troubles  of  povert}^ ;  the  man's  whole 
existence  appeared  to  pass  before  ycu,  facile  and  large, 
in  the  freedom  of  means  as  ample  as  the  clolli-ng  of  bis 
body. 

The  irrational  dread  of  having  to  break  into  his  five 
hundred  pounds  for  personal  expenses  in  the  hotel  dis- 
turbed the  steady  poise  of  his  mind.  There  was  no 
time  to  lose.  The  bill  was  running  up.  He  nourished 
the  hope  that  this  five  hundred  would  perhaps  be  the 
means,  if  everything  else  failed,  of  obtaining  some  work 
which,  keeping  his  body  and  soul  together  (not  a  matter 
of  great  outlay),  would  enable  him  to  be  of  use  to  his 
daughter.  To  his  mind  it  was  her  own  mone}'  which  he 
employed,  as  it  were,  in  backing  her  father  and  solely 
for  her  benefit.  Once  at  work,  he  would  help  her  with 
the  greater  part  of  his  earnings ;  he  was  good  for  many 
years  yet,  and  this  boarding-house  business,  ho  argued 
to  himself,  whatever  the  prospects,  could  not  be  much  of 
a  gold-mine  from  the  first  start.  But  what  work?  He 
was  ready  to  lay  hold  of  anything  in  an  honest  way  so 
that  it  came  quickly  to  his  hand;  because  the  five  hun- 
dred pounds  must  be  preserved  intact  for  eventual  use. 
That  was  the  great  point.  With  the  entire  five  hundred 
one  felt  a  substance  at  one's  back;  but  it  seemed  to  him 
that  should  he  let  it  dwindle  to  four-fifty  or  even  four- 

[  212  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

eighty,  all  the  efficiency  would  be  gone  out  of  the  money, 
IS  though  there  were  some  magic  power  in  the  round 
figure.     But  what  sort  of  work? 

Confronted  by  that  haunting  question  as  by  an  uneasy 
ghost,  for  whom  he  had  no  exorcising  formula,  Captain 
Whalley  stopped  short  on  the  apex  of  a  small  bridge 
spanning  steeply  the  bed  of  a  canalized  creek  with 
graijite  shores.  Moored  between  tlie  square  blocks  a  sea- 
going Malay  prau  floated  half  hidden  under  the  arch 
of  masonry,  with  her  spars  lowered  down,  without  a  sound 
of  life  on  board,  and  covered  from  stem  to  stem  with  a 
ridge  of  palm-leaf  mats.  He  had  left  behind  him  the 
overheated  pavements  bordered  b}^  the  stone  frontages 
that,  like  the  sheer  face  of  cliffs,  followed  the  sweep 
of  the  quays ;  and  an  unconfined  spaciousness  of  orderly 
and  sylvan  aspect  opened  before  him  its  wide  plots  of 
rolled  grass,  like  pieces  of  green  carpet  smoothly  pegged 
out,  its  long  ranges  of  trees  lined  up  in  colossal  porticos 
of  dark  shafts  roofed  with  a  vault  of  branches. 

Some  of  these  avenues  ended  at  the  sea.  It  was  a  ter- 
raced shore;  and  beyond,  upon  the  level  expanse,  pro- 
found and  glistening  like  the  gaze  of  a  dark-blue  e3^e, 
an  oblique  band  of  stippled  pui*ple  lengthened  itself  in- 
definitely through  the  gap  between  a  couple  of  verdant 
twin  islets.  The  masts  and  spars  of  a  few  ships  far 
away,  hull  down  in  the  outer  roads,  sprang  straight  from 
the  water  in  a  fine  maze  of  rosy  lines  penciled  on  the 
clear  shadow  of  the  eastern  board.  Captain  Whalley 
gave  them  a  long  glance.  The  sliip,  once  his  own,  was 
anchored  out  there.  It  was  staggering  to  think  that  it 
[  ^13   ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

iiras  open  to  him  no  longer  to  take  a  boat  at  the  jetty 
and  get  himself  pulled  off  to  her  when  the  evening  came 
To  no  ship.  Perhaps  never  more.  Before  the  sale  was 
concluded,  and  till  the  purchase-money  had  been  paid, 
he  had  spent  daily  some  timxe  on  board  the  Fair  Meld. 
The  money  had  been  paid  this  very  morning,  and  ncv/, 
all  at  once,  there  was  positively  no  ship  that  he  could 
go  on  board  of  when  he  liked;  no  ship  that  would  need 
his  presence  in  order  to  do  her  work — to  live.  It  seemed 
an  incredible  state  of  affairs,  something  too  bizarre  to 
last.  And  the  sea  was  full  of  craft  of  all  sorts.  There 
was  that  prau  lying  so  still  swathed  in  her  shroud  of 
sewn  palm-leaves — she  too  had  her  indispensable  man. 
They  lived  through  each  other,  this  Malay  he  had  never 
seen,  and  this  high-sterned  thing  of  no  size  that  seemed 
to  be  resting  after  a  long  journey.  And  of  all  the  ships 
in  sight,  near  and  far,  each  was  provided  with  a  man,, 
the  man  without  whom  the  finest  ship  is  a  dead  thing,; 
a  floating  and  purposeless  log. 

After  his  one  glance  at  the  roadstead  he  went  on,  since 
there  was  nothing  to  turn  back  for,  and  the  time  must 
be  got  through  somehow.  The  avenues  of  big  trees  ran 
straight  over  the  Esplanade,  cutting  each  other  at  di 
verse  angles,  colum.nar  below  and  luxuriant  above.  The 
interlaced  boughs  high  up  there  seemed  to  slumber ;  not 
a  leaf  stirred  overhead:  and  the  reedy  cast-iron  lamp- 
posts in  the  middle  of  the  road,  gilt  like  scepters, 
diminished  in  a  long  perspective,  with  their  globes  of 
white  porcelain  atop,  resembling  a  barbarous  decoration 
of  ostriches'  eggs  displayed  in  a  row.     The  flaming  sky 

[  214  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

kindled  a  tiny  crimson  spark  upon  the  glistening  sur- 
face of  each  glassy  shell. 

With  his  chin  sunk  a  little,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
and  the  end  of  his  stick  marking  the  gravel  with  a  faint 
wavering  line  at  his  heels.  Captain  Whaliey  reflected 
that  if  a  ship  without  a  man  was  like  a  body  without 
a  soul,  a  sailor  without  a  ship  was  of  not  much  more 
account  in  this  world  than  an  aimless  log  adrift  upon  the 
sea.  The  log  might  be  sound  enough  by  itself,  tough 
of  fiber,  and  hard  to  destroy — but  what  of  that !  And 
^  sudden  sense  of  irremediable  idleness  weighted  his  feet 
like  a  great  fatigue. 

A  succession  of  open  carriages  came  bowling  along  tlie 
newly  opened  sea-road.  You  could  see  across  the  wide 
grass-plots  the  discs  of  vibration  made  by  the  spokes. 
The  bright  domes  of  the  parasols  swayed  lightly  out- 
wards like  full-blown  blossoms  on  the  rim  of  a  vase ;  and 
the  quiet  sheet  of  dark-blue  water,  crossed  by  a  bar  of 
purple,  made  a  background  for  the  spinning  wheels  and 
the  high  action  of  the  horses,  whilst  the  turbaned  heads 
of  the  Indian  servants  elevated  above  the  line  of  the  sea 
horizon  glided  rapidly  on  the  paler  blue  of  the  sky.  In 
an  open  space  near  the  little  bridge  each  turn-out  trotted 
smartly  in  a  wide  curve  away  from  th-e  sunset ;  then  pull- 
ing up  sharp,  entered  the  main  alley  in  a  long  slow- 
moving  file  with  the  great  red  stillness  of  the  sky  at 
the  back.  The  trunks  of  mighty  trees  stood  all  touched 
With  red  on  the  same  side,  the  air  seemed  aflame  under 
the  high  foliage,  the  very  ground  under  the  hoofs  of  the 
horses  was  red.  The  wheels  turned  solemnly;  one  after 
[  216  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

another  the  sunshades  drooped,  folding  their  colors  like 
gorgeous  flowers  shutting  tlieir  petals  at  the  end  of  the 
dsLj.  In  the  whole  half-mile  of  human  beings  no  voice 
uttered  a  distinct  word,  only  a  faint  thudding  noise  went 
on  mingled  with  slight  jingling  sounds,  and  the  motion- 
less heads  and  shoulders  of  men  and  women  sitting  in 
couples  emerged  stolidly  above  the  lowered  hoods — as  if 
wooden.  But  one  carriage  and  pair  coming  late  did  not 
join  the  line. 

It  fled  along  in  a  noiseless  roll;  but  on  entering  the 
avenue  one  of  the  dark  bays  snorted,  arching  his  neck 
and  shying  against  the  steel-tipped  pole;  a  flake  of 
foam  fell  from  the  bit  upon  the  point  of  a  satiny  shoul- 
der, and  the  dusky  face  of  the  coachman  leaned  for- 
ward at  once  over  the  hands  taking  a  fresh  grip  of  the 
reins.  It  was  a  long  dark-green  landau,  having  a  digni- 
fied and  buoyant  motion  between  the  sharply  curved 
C-springs,  p.nd  a  sort  of  strictly  official  majesty  in  its 
supreme  elegance.  It  seemed  more  roomy  than  is  usualJ 
its  horses  seemed  slightly  bigger,  the  appointments  a 
shade  more  perfect,  the  servants  perched  somewhat 
higher  on  the  box.  The  dresses  of  three  Y^-omen — twc 
young  and  pretty,  and  one,  handsome,  large,  of  ma.ture 
age — seen:cd  to  fill  completely  the  shallow  body  of  the 
carriage.  The  fourth  face  was  that  of  a  man,  heavy 
lidded,  distinguished  and  sallow,  with  a  somber,  thick* 
iron-gray  imperial  and  mustaches,  which  som.ehow  had 
the  air  of  solid  appendages.     His  Excellency 

The  rapid  motion  of  that  one  equipage  made  all  the 

others  appear  utterly  inferior,  blighted,  and  reduced  tc 

[   9A6  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

crawl  painfully  at  a  snail's  pace.  The  landau  distanced 
the  whole  file  in  a  sort  of  sustained  rush;  the  features 
of  the  occupants  whirling  out  of  sight  left  behind  an 
impression  of  fixed  stares  and  impassive  vacancy;  and 
after  it  had  vanished  in  full  flight  as  it  were,  notwith- 
standing the  long  line  of  vehicles  hugging  the  curb  at 
a  walk,  the  whole  lofty  vista  of  the  avenue  seemed  to  lie 
open  and  emptied  of  life  in  the  enlarged  impression  of 
an  august  solitude. 

Captain  Whalley  had  lifted  his  head  to  look,  and  his 
mind,  disturbed  in  its  meditation,  turned  v/ith  v/onder 
(as  men's  minds  will  do)  to  matters  of  no  importance. 
It  stinick  him  that  it  was  to  this  port,  where  he  had 
just  sold  his  last  ship,  that  he  had  come  v,ith  the  very 
first  he  had  ever  owned,  and  with  his  head  full  of  a  plan 
for  opening  a  new  trade  with  a  distant  part  of  the 
Archipelago.  The  then  governor  had  given  him  no  end 
of  encouragement.  No  Excellency  he — this  Mr.  Den- 
ham — this  governor  with  his  jacket  off;  a  man  who 
tended  night  and  day,  so  to  speak,  the  growing  pros- 
perity of  the  settlement  with  the  self-forgetful  devotion 
of  a  nurse  for  a  child  she  loves;  a  lone  bachelor  who 
lived  as  in  a  camp  with  the  few  servants  and  his  three 
doers  in  what  was  called  then  the  Government  Bungalow: 
a  low-roofed  structure  on  the  half -cleared  slope  of  a 
hill,  with  a  new  flagstaff  in  front  and  a  police  orderly 
on  the  veranda.  He  remembered  toiling  up  that  hill 
under  a  heavy  sun  for  his  audience;  the  unfurnished 
:  aspect  of  the  cool  shaded  room;  the  long  table  covered 
at  one  end  with  piles  of  papers,  and  with  two  guns,  a 

[  ^i^r  1 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

brass  telescope,  a  small  bottle  of  oil  with  a  feather  stuck 
in  the  neck  at  the  other — and  the  flattering  attention 
given  to  him  by  the  man  in  power.  It  was  an  under- 
taking full  of  risk  he  had  come  to  expound,  but  a  t^venty 
minutes'  talk  in  the  Government  Bungalow  on  the  hill 
had  made  it  go  smoothly  from  the  start.  And  as  he 
was  retiring  Mr.  Denham,  already  seated  before  the 
papers,  called  out  after  him,  "  Next  month  the  Dido 
starts  for  a  cruise  that  waj^,  and  I  shall  request  her 
captain  officially  to  give  you  a  look  in  and  sec  how 
you  get  on."  The  Dido  was  one  of  the  smart  frigates  on 
the  China  station — and  five-and-thirty  years  make  a  big 
slice  of  time.  Five-and-thirtj^  years  ago  an  enterprise 
like  his  had  for  the  colony  enough  importance  to  be 
looked  after  by  a  Queen's  ship.  A  big  slice  of  time. 
Individuals  were  of  some  account  then.  ]\Ien  like  him- 
self; men,  too,  like  poor  Evans,  for  instance,  with  his 
red  face,  his  coal-black  vrhiskers,  and  his  restless  eyes, 
who  had  set  up  the  first  patent  sHp  for  repairing  sm.all 
ships,  on  the  edge  of  the  forest,  in  a  lonely  bay  three 
miles  up  the  coast.  Mr.  Denham  had  encouraged  that 
enterprise  too,  and  yet  somehow  poor  Evans  had  ended 
by  dying  at  home  deucedly  hard  up.  His  son,  they  said, 
was  squeezing  oil  out  of  cocoa-nuts  for  a  living  on  some 
God- forsaken  islet  of  the  Indian  Ocean ;  but  it  was  from 
that  patent  slip  in  a  lonely  wooded  bay  that  had  sprung 
the  workshops  of  the  Consolidated  Docks  Company,  with 
its  three  graving  basin?  carved  out  of  solid  rock,  its 
wharves,  its  jetties,  its  electric-light  plant,  its  steam- 
power  houses — with  its  gigantic  sheer-legs,  fit  to  lift  the 
[  218  1 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 

heaviest  weight  ever  carried  afloat,  and  whose  head  could 
be  seen  hke  the  top  of  a  queer  white  monument  peeping 
over  bushy  points  of  land  and  sandy  promontories,  as 
you  approached  the  New  Harbor  from  the  west. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  men  counted:  there  were 
not  so  many  carriages  in  the  colony  then,  though  Mr. 
Denham,  he  fancied,  had  a  buggy.  And  Captain  Whal- 
ley  seemed  to  be  swept  out  of  the  great  avenue  by  the 
swirl  of  a  m.ental  backwash.  He  remembered  muddy 
shores,  a  harbor  without  quays,  the  one  solitary  wooden 
pier  (but  that  was  a  public  work)  jutting  out  crookedly, 
the  first  ccal-sheds  erected  on  IMonkey  Point,  that  caught 
fire  mysteriously  and  smoldered  for  days,  so  that 
amazed  ships  came  into  a  roadstead  full  of  sulphurous 
fog,  and  the  sun  hung  blood-red  at  midday.  He  re- 
membered the  things,  the  faces,  and  something  more 
besides — like  the  faint  flavor  of  a  cup  quaffed  to  the 
bottom,  like  a  subtle  sparkle  of  the  air  that  was  not 
to  be  found  in  the  atmosphere  of  to-day. 

In  this  evocation,  swift  and  full  of  detail  like  a  flash 
of  m.agnesium  light  into  the  niches  of  a  dark  memorial 
hall,  Captain  Whallej^  contemplated  things  once  impor- 
tant, the  efforts  of  small  men,  the  growth  of  a  great 
place,  but  now  robbed  of  all  consequence  by  the  great- 
ness of  accomplished  facts,  by  hopes  greater  still;  and 
they  gave  him  for  a  moment  such  an  almost  physical 
grip  upon  time,  such  a  comprehension  of  our  unchange- 
able feelings,  that  he  stopped  short,  struck  the  ground 
with  his  stick,  and  ejaculated  mentally,  "  What  the  devil 
am  I  doing  here !  "  He  seemed  lost  in  a  sort  of  surprise ; 
[  219  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHEK 

but  he  heard  his  name  called  out  in  wheezy  tones  once, 
twice — and  turned  on  his  heels  i>lowly. 

He  beheld  then,  waddling  towards  him  autocratically, 
a  man  of  an  old-fashioned  and  gouty  aspect,  with  hair 
as  white  as  his  own,  but  with  shaved,  florid  cheeks,  wear- 
ing a  necktie — almost  a  neckcloth — whose  stiff  ends  pro- 
jected far  beyond  his  chin;  with  round  legs,  round  arms, 
a  round  body,  a  round  face— generally  producing  the 
effect  of  his  short  figure  having  been  distended  by  means 
of  an  air-pump  as  much  as  the  scams  of  his  clothing 
would  stand.  This  was  the  Master- Attendant  of  the 
port.  A  master-attendant  is  a  superior  sort  of  liarbor- 
master;  a  person,  out  in  the  Eii-st,  of  some  consequence 
in  his  sphere;  a  Government  official,  a  magistrate  for 
the  waters  of  the  port,  and  possessed  of  vast  but  ill- 
defined  disciplinary  authority  over  seamen  of  all  classes. 
This  particular  Master- Attendant  was  reported  to  con- 
sider it  miserably  inadequate,  on  the  ground  that  it 
did  not  include  the  power  of  life  and  death.  This  was 
a  jocular  exaggeration.  Captain  Eliott  was  fairly  satis- 
fied with  his  position,  and  nursed  no  inconsiderable  sense 
of  such  power  as  he  had.  His  conceited  and  tyrannical 
disposition  did  not  allow  him  to  let  it  dwindle  in  his 
hands  for  want  of  use.  The  uproarious,  choleric  frank- 
ness of  his  comments  on  people's  character  and  condiic!: 
caused  him  to  be  feared  at  bottom ;  though  in  conversa- 
tion many  pretended  not  to  mind  him  in  the  least,  others 
would  only  smile  sourly  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  find 
there  were  even  some  who  dared  to  pronounce  him  *'  a 
meddlesome  old  iniffian."  But  for  almost  all  of  them 
[  220  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

one  of  Captain  Eliott's  outbreaks  was  nearly  as  distaste- 
ful to  face  as  a  chance  of  annihilation. 


As  soon  as  he  had  come  up  quite  close  he  said,  mouth- 
ing in  a  growl — 

"  What's  this  I  hear,  Whalley?  Is  it  true  you're  sell- 
ing the  Fair  Maid?  " 

Captain  Whalley,  looking  away,  said  the  thing  vrr.s 
done — money  had  been  paid  that  morning ;  and  the  other 
expressed  at  once  his  approbation  of  such  an  extremely 
sensible  proceeding.  He  had  got  out  of  his  trap  to 
stretch  his  legs,  he  explained,  on  his  way  home  to  dinner. 
Sir  Frederick  looked  well  at  the  end  of  his  time.  Didn't 
he? 

Captain  Whalley  could  not  say;  had  only  noticed  the 
carnage  going  past. 

The  Master-Attendant,  plunging  his  hands  into  the 
pockets  of  an  alpaca  jacket  inappropriately  short  and 
tight  for  a  man  of  his  age  and  appearance,  strutted 
with  a  slight  limp,  and  with  his  head  reaching  only  to 
the  shoulder  of  Captain  Whalley,  who  walked  easily, 
staring  straight  before  him.  They  had  been  good  com- 
rades years  ago,  almost  intimates.  At  the  time  when 
Whalley  commanded  the  renowned  Condor,  Eliott  had 
charge  of  the  nearly  as  famous  Ringdove  for  the  same 
owners ;  and  when  the  appointment  of  Master- Attendant 
was  created,  Whalley  would  have  been  the  only  other 
[  221   ] 


THE   END   OF    THE   TETHER 

serious  candidate.  But  Caplain  Whalley,  then  in  the 
prime  of  hfe,  was  resolved  to  serve  no  one  but  his  ovvii 
auspicious  Fortune.  Far  awaj^,  tending  his  hot  irons, 
he  was  glad  to  hear  the  other  had  been  successful.  There 
was  a  worldly  suppleness  in  bluff  Ned  Eliott  that  would 
serve  him  vv^ell  in  that  sort  of  official  appointment.  And 
they  were  so  dissimilar  at  bottom  that  as  they  came 
slowly  to  the  end  of  the  avenue  before  the  Cathedral,  it 
had  never  come  into  Whallej^'s  head  that  he  miight  have 
been  in  that  man's  place — provided  for  to  the  end  of 
his  days. 

The  sacred  edifice,  standing  in  solemn  isolation  amongst 
the  converging  avenues  of  enormous  trees,  as  if  to  put 
grave  thoughts  of  heaven  into  the  hours  of  ease,  pre- 
sented a  closed  Gothic  portal  to  the  light  and  glorj-  of 
the  west.  The  glass  of  the  rosace  above  the  ogive  gloried 
like  fiery  coal  in  the  deep  carvings  of  a  wheel  of  stone. 
The  two  men  faced  about. 

'•  I'll  tell,  you  what  they  ought  to  do  next,  Whalic}^," 
growled  Captain  Eliott  suddenly. 

"Well.?" 

"  They  ought  to  send  a  real  live  lord  out  here  when 
Sir  Frederick's  time  is  up.     Eh?  " 

Captain  Whalley  perfunctorily  did  not  see  why  a  lord 
of  the  right  sort  should  not  do  as  well  as  an3^one  else. 
But  this  was  not  the  other's  point  of  viev/. 

"  No,  no.     Place  runs  itself.     Nothing  can  stop  it  now. . 
Good  enough  for  a  lord."  he  growled  in  short  sentences. 
"  Look  at  the  changes  in  our  own  time.     We  need  a  lord 
here  now.     They  have  got  a  lord  in  Bombay.'* 
[  222  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

He  dined  once  or  twice  every  year  at  the  Government 
House — a  many-windowed,  arcaded  palace  upon  a  hlA 
laid  out  in  roads  and  gardens.  And  lately  he  had  been 
taking  about  a  duke  in  his  Master-Attendant's  steam- 
launch  to  visit  the  harbor  improvemxcnts.  Before  that 
he  had  "  most  obligingly  "  gone  out  in  person  to  pick 
out  a  good  berth  for  the  ducal  3'acht.  Afterwards  he 
had  an  invitation  to  lunch  on  board.  The  duchess  her- 
self lunched  w4th  them.  A  big  woman  with  a  red  face. 
Complexion  quite  sunburnt.  He  should  think  ruined. 
Very  gracious  manners.  They  were  going  on  to 
Japan.    .    .     . 

Pie  ejaculated  these  details  for  Captain  Whalley's  edi- 
fication, pausing  to  blow  out  his  cheeks  as  if  with  a 
pent-up  sense  of  importance,  and  repeatedly  protruding 
his  thick  lips  till  the  blunt  crimson  end  of  his  nose  seemed 
to  dip  into  the  milk  of  his  mustache.  The  place  ran 
itself;  it  v/as  fit  for  any  lord;  it  gave  no  trouble  except 
in  its  Marine  department — in  its  Marine  department,  he 
repeated  tvv^ice,  and  after  a  heavy  snort  began  to  relate 
how  the  other  day  her  Majesty's  Consul-General  in 
French  Cochin-China  had  cabled  to  him — in  his  official 
capacity — asking  for  a  qualified  man  to  be  sent  over 
to  take  charge  of  a  Glasgow  ship  whose  master  had  died 
in  Saigon. 

"  I  sent  word  of  it  to  the  officers'  quarters  in  the  Sailors' 
Home,"  he  continued,  while  the  limp  in  his  gait  seem.ed 
to  grow  mxore  accentuated  with  the  increasing  irritation 
of  his  voice.  "  Place's  full  of  them.  Twice  as  many 
men  as  there  are  berths  going  in  the  local  trade.  All 
[  223   ] 


THE   END    OF    THE    TETHER 

hungry  for  an  easy  job.     Twice  as  many — and — What 
d'y  ou  think,  Whalley?    ..." 

He  stopped  short ;  his  hands  clenched  and  thrust  deeply 
downwards,  seemed  ready  to  burst  the  pockets  of  his 
jacket.     A  slight  sigh  escaped  Captain  Whalley. 

"  Hey  ?  You  would  think  they  would  be  f alhng  over 
each  other.  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Frightened  to  go  home. 
Nice  and  warm  out  here  to  lie  about  a  veranda  waiting 
for  a  job.  I  sit  and  wait  in  my  office.  Nobody.  What 
did  they  suppose.?  That  I  was  going  to  sit  there  like 
a  dummy  with  the  Consul-General's  cable  before  me.? 
Not  likely.  So  I  looked  up  a  list  of  them  I  keep  by 
me  and  sent  word  for  Hamilton — the  w^orst  loafer  cf 
them  all — and  just  made  him  go.  Threatened  to  in- 
struct the  steward  of  the  Sailors'  Home  to  have  him 
turned  out  neck  and  crop.  He  did  not  think  the  berth 
was  good  enough — if — you — please.  '  I've  yoijr  little 
record  by  me,'  said  I.  '  You  came  ashore  here  eighteen 
months  ago,  and  you  haven't  done  six  months'  work 
since.  You  are  in  debt  for  3^our  board  now  at  the  Homo, 
and  I  suppose  you  reckon  the  ^iarine  Office  will  pay  in 
the  end.  Eh.?  So  it  shall;  but  if  you  don't  take  tins 
chance,  away  you  go  to  England,  assisted  passage,  by 
the  first  homeward  steamer  that  comes  along.  You  ;ire 
no  better  than  a  pauper.  We  don't  want  any  v/lnte 
paupers  here.'  I  scared  him.  But  look  at  the  tror;ble 
all  this  gave  me." 

"  You  would  not  have  had  any  trouble,"  Captain  Whal- 
ley said  almost  involuntarily,  "  if  you  had  sent  tof 
me." 

[  2^4  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Captain  Eliott  was  immensely  amused;  he  shook  with 
laughter  as  he  walked.  But  suddenly  he  stopped  laugh- 
ing. A  vague  recollection  had  crossed  his  mind.  Hadn't 
he  heard  it  said  at  the  time  of  the  Travancore  and  Deccan 
smash  that  poor  Whallej'  had  been  cleaned  out  com- 
pletely. "  Fellow's  hard  up,  b}-  heavens !  "  he  thought ; 
and  at  once  he  cast  a  sidelong  upward  glance  at  his 
companion.  But  Captain  Whalley  was  smiling  austerely 
straight  before  him,  with  a  carriage  of  the  head  incon- 
ceivable in  a  penniless  man — and  he  became  reassured. 
Impossible.  Could  not  have  lost  everything.  That  ship 
had  been  cnly  a  hobby  of  his.  And  the  reflection  that 
a  man  who  had  confessed  to  receiving  that  very  morning 
a  presumably  large  sum  of  money  was  not  likely  to 
spring  upon  him  a  demand  for  a  small  loan  put  him 
entirely  at  his  ease  again.  There  had  come  a  long  pause 
in  their  talk,  however,  and  not  knowing  how  to  begin 
again,  he  growled  out  soberly,  "  We  old  fellows  ought 
to  take  a  rest  novv\" 

"  The  best  thing  for  some  of  us  would  be  to  die  at  the 
oar,"  Captain  Whalley  said  negligently. 

"  Come,  now.  Aren't  3^ou  a  bit  tired  by  this  time  of 
tke  whole  show.^  "  muttered  the  other  sullenly. 

"  Are  you  ?  " 

Captain  Eliott  was.  Infernally  tired.  He  only  hung 
om  to  his  berth  so  long  in  order  to  get  his  pension  on  the 
highest  scale  before  he  went  home.  It  would  be  no  better 
than  poverty,  anyhow;  still,  it  was  the  only  thing  be- 
tween him  and  the  workhouse.  And  he  had  a  family' . 
Tliree  girls,  as  Whalley  knew.  He  gave  "  Harry,  old 
[  225   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

^oy,"  to  understand  that  these  three  girls  were  a  source 
of  the  greatest  anxiety  and  worry  to  him.  Enough  to 
drive  a  man  distracted. 

"  Why  ?  What  have  they  been  doing  now  ?  "  asked 
Captain  Whalley  vrith  a  sort  of  amused  absent-minded- 
ness. 

"Doing!  Doing  nothing.  That's  just  it.  Lav,n- 
tennis  and  silly  novels  from  morning  to  night.    ..." 

If  one  of  them  at  least  had  been  a  boy!  But  all  three! 
And,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  there  did  not  seem  to  be 
any  decent  young  fellows  left  in  the  world.  When  he 
looked  around  in  the  club  he  saw  only  a  lot  of  conceited 
popinjays  too  selfish  to  think  of  making  a  good  woman 
happy.  Extreme  indigence  stared  him  in  the  face  with 
all  that  crowd  to  keep  at  home.  He  had  cherished  the 
idea  of  building  himself  a  little  house  in  the  countrj^ — 
in  Surrey — to  end  his  days  in,  but  he  was  afraid  it  was 
out  of  the  question  .  .  .  and  his  staring  eyes  rolled 
upwards  with  such  a  pathetic  anxiety  that  Captain  Whal- 
ley charitably  nodded  down  at  him,  restraining  a  sort  of 
sickening  desire  to  laugh. 

"  You  must  know  what  it  is  3^ourself ,  Harry.  Girls 
are  the  very  devil  for  worry  and  anxiety." 

"  Ay !  But  mine  is  doing  well,"  Captain  Whalley  pro- 
nounced slowly,  staring  to  the  end  of  the  avenue. 

The  Master-Attendant  was  glad  to  hear  this.  Uncom- 
monly glad.  He  remembered  her  well.  A  pretty  girl 
she  was. 

Captain  Whalley,  stepping  out  carelessly,  assented  as 
if  in  a  dream. 

[  226  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  She  was  pretty." 

The  procession  of  carriages  was  breaking  up. 

One  after  another  they  left  the  file  to  go  off  at  a  trot^ 
animating  the  vast  avenue  with  their  scattered  life  and 
movement;  but  soon  the  aspect  of  dignified  solitude  re- 
turned and  took  possession  of  the  straight  wide  road. 
A  syce  in  white  stood  at  the  head  of  a  Burmah  pcny  har- 
nessed to  a  varnished  two-wheel  cart ;  and  the  whole  thing 
waiting  by  the  curb  seemed  no  bigger  than  a  child's  toy 
forgotten  under  the  soaring  trees.  Captain  Eliott 
waddled  up  to  it  and  made  as  if  to  clamber  in,  but  re- 
frained;" and  keeping  one  hand  resting  easily  on  the 
shaft,  he  changed  the  conversation  from  his  pension,  his 
daughters,  and  his  poverty  back  again  to  the  only  other 
topic  in  the  vrorld — the  ;:\Iarine  Office,  the  men  and  the 
ships  of  the  port. 

He  proceeded  to  give  instances  of  what  was  expected 
of  him;  and  his  thick  voice  drowsed  in  the  still  air  like 
the  obstinate  droning  of  an  enormous  bumble-bee.  Cap- 
tain Whalle}^  did  not  know  what  was  the  force  or  the 
weakness  that  prevented  him  from  saying  good-night 
and  walking  avray.  It  was  as  though  he  had  been  too 
tired  to  make  the  effort.  Hovv^  queer.  More  queer  than 
any  of  Ned's  instances.  Or  was  it  that  overpowering 
sense  of  idleness  alone  tha,t  made  him  stand  there  and 
listen  to  these  stories?  Nothing  very  real  had  ever 
troubled  Ned  Eliott;  and  gradually  he  seemed  to  detect 
deep  in,  as  if  wrapped  up  in  the  gross  wheezy  rumble, 
something  of  the  clear  hearty  voice  of  the  young  captain 
"^i  the  Ringdove,  He  wondered  if  he  too  had  changed  to 
[  227  j 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

the  same  extent ;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  voice  of 
liis  old  chum  had  not  changed  so  very  much — that  the 
man  was  the  same.  Not  a  bad  fellow  the  pleasant,  jodly 
Ned  Eliott,  friendly,  well  up  to  his  business — and  always 
a  bit  of  a  humbug.  He  remembered  how  he  used  to 
amuse  his  poor  wife.  She  could  read  him  like  an  opjn 
book.  When  the  Condor  and  the  Ringdove  happened  to 
be  in  port  together,  she  would  frequently  ask  him  to 
bring  Captain  Eliott  to  dinner.  They  had  not  met  often 
since  those  old  days.  Not  once  in  five  j^ears,  perhaps. 
He  regarded  from  under  his  white  eyebrows  this  mun 
he  could  not  bring  himself  to  take  into  his  confidence 
at  this  juncture;  and  the  other  went  on  with  his  intim/ite 
outpourings,  and  as  remote  from  his  hearer  as  though 
he  had  been  talking  on  a  hill-top  a  mile  away. 

He  was  in  a  bit  of  a  quandary  now  as  to  the  steaisner 
Sofala.  Ultimately  every  hitch  in  the  port  came  isto 
his  hands  to  undo.  They  would  miss  him  when  he  was 
gone  in  another  eighteen  months,  and  most  likely  smne 
retired  naval  officer  had  been  pitchforked  into  the  ap- 
pointment— a  man  that  would  understand  nothing  and 
care  less.  That  steamer  was  a  coasting  craft  having  a 
steady  trade  connection  as  far  north  as  Tenasserim ;  but 
the  trouble  was  she  could  get  no  captain  to  take  her 
on  her  regular  trip.  Nobody  would  go  in  her.  He 
really  had  no  power,  of  course,  to  order  a  man  to  tjike 
a  job.  It  was  all  ver}^  well  to  stretch  a  point  en  the 
demand  of  a  consul-general,  but  .   .   . 

"  What's  the  matter  with  the  ship.?  "  Captain  Wliailey 
interrupted  in  measured  tones. 

[  228  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Nothing's  the  matter.  Sound  old  steamer.  Her 
jwner  has  been  in  my  ofiice  this  afternoon  tearing  his 
hair." 

"  Is  he  a  white  man.?  "  asked  Whalley  in  an  interested 
voice. 

'•  He  calls  himself  a  white  man,"  answered  the  Master- 
Attendant  scornfully;  "but  if  so,  it's  just  skin-deep 
and  no  more.     I  told  him  that  to  his  face  too." 

'•But  who  is  he,  then?" 

"  He's  the  chief  engineer  of  her.  See  that, 
Harry.?" 

''  I  see,"  Captain  Whallej  said  thoughtfully.  "  The 
engineer.     I  see." 

How  the  fellow  came  to  be  a  shipowner  at  the  same 
time  was  quite  a  tale.  He  came  out  third  in  a  home 
ship  nearly  fifteen  years  ago.  Captain  Eliott  remem- 
bered, and  got  paid  off  after  a  bad  sort  of  row  both 
with  his  skipper  and  his  chief.  Anyway,  they  seemed 
jolly  glad  to  get  rid  of  him  at  all  costs.  Clearly  a  mu- 
tinous sort  of  chap.  Well,  he  remained  out  here,  a  per- 
fect nuisance,  everlastingly  shipped  and  unshipped,  un- 
able to  keep  a  berth  very  long;  pretty  nigh  went 
through  every  engine-room  afloat  belonging  to  the 
colony.  Then  suddenly,  "  What  do  you  think  hap- 
pened, Harry?  " 

Captain  Whalley,  who  seemed  lost  in  a  mental  effort 

--  of  doing  a  sum  in  his  head,  gave  a  slight  start.     He 

dly  couldn't  imagine.     The  Master- Attendant's  voice 

vibrated  dully  with  hoarse  emphasis.     The  man  actually 

Vxiid  the  luck  to  win  the  second  prize  in  the  Manilla  lot- 

[  S29  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

tery.  All  these  engineers  and  officers  of  ships  tcck 
tickets  in  that  gamble.  It  seemed  to  be  a  perfect  mania 
with  them  all. 

Everybody  expected  now  that  he  would  take  himself 
off  home  with  his  money,  and  go  to  the  devil  in  his  own 
way.  Not  r±  all.  The  Sofala,  judged  too  smiall  and 
not  quite  modern  enough  for  the  sort  of  trade  she  was 
in,  could  be  got  for  a  moderate  price  from  her  ovrners, 
who  had  ordered  a  new  steamer  from  Europe.  He 
rushed  in  and  bought  her.  This  man  had  never  given 
any  signs  of  that  sort  of  mental  intoxication  the  mere 
fact  of  getting  hold  of  a  large  sum  of  money  may  pro- 
duce— not  till  he  got  a  ship  of  his  own;  but  then  he 
v^ent  off  his  balance  all  at  once :  came  bouncing  into  the 
jMarine  Office  on  some  transfer  business,  with  his  hat 
hanging  over  his  left  eye  and  switching  a  little  cane  in 
his  hand,  and  told  each  one  of  the  clerks  separately  that 
"  Nobody  could  put  him  out  now.  It  was  his  turn. 
There  was  no  one  over  him  on  earth,  and  there  never 
v;ould  be  either."  He  swaggered  and  strutted  between 
the  desks,  talking  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  and  trembling 
like  a  leaf  all  the  while,  so  that  the  current  business 
of  the  office  was  suspended  for  the  time  he  was  in  there, 
and  everybody  in  the  big  room  stood  open-mouthed 
looking  at  his  antics.  Afterwards  he  could  be  seen 
during  the  hottest  hours  of  the  day  with  his  face  as 
red  as  fire  rushing  along  up  and  down  the  quays  to  look 
at  his  ship  from  different  points  of  view:  he  seemed 
inclined  to  stop  every  stranger  he  came  across  just  to 
let  them  know  "  that  there  vrould  be  no  longer  anyone 
[  SSO  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

over  him ;  he  had  bought  a  ship ;  nobody  on  earth  cculd 
put  him  out  of  his  engine-room  now." 

Good  bargain  as  she  was,  the  price  of  the  Sofala  took 
up  pretty  near  all  the  lottery-money.  He  had  left  him- 
self no  capital  to  work  with.  That  did  not  matter  so 
much,  for  these  were  the  halcyon  days  of  steam  coasting 
trade,  before  some  of  the  home  shipping  firms  had 
thought  of  establishing  local  fleets  to  feed  their  m.ain 
lines.  These,  when  once  organized,  took  the  biggest 
slices  out  of  that  cake,  of  course ;  and  by-and-by  a  squad 
of  confounded  German  tramps  turned  up  east  of  Suez 
Canal  and  swept  up  all  the  crumbs.  They  prowled  on 
the  cheap  to  and  fro  along  tlie  coast  and  between  the 
islands,  like  a  lot  of  sharks  in  the  water  ready  to  snap 
up  anything  you  let  drop.  And  then  the  high  old  times 
were  over  for  good;  for  years  the  Sofala  had  made  no 
more,  he  judged,  than  a  fair  living.  Captain  Eliott 
looked  upon  it  as  his  duty  in  every  way  to  assist  an 
English  ship  to  hold  her  own;  and  it  stood  to  reason 
that  if  for  want  of  a  captain  the  Sofala  began  to  miss 
her  trips  she  would  very  soon  lose  her  trade.  There  wt.s 
the  quandary.  The  man  was  too  impracticable.  "  Too 
much  of  a  beggar  on  horseback  from  the  first,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  Seemed  to  grow  worse  as  the  time  went  en. 
In  tlie  last  three  years  he's  run  through  eleven  skippers ; 
he  had  tried  every  single  man  here,  outside  of  the  regu- 
lar lines.  I  had  warned  him  before  that  this  would  not 
do.  And  now,  of  course,  no  one  will  look  at  the  Sofala. 
I  had  one  or  two  men  up  at  my  office  and  talked  to 
them;  but,  as  they  said  to  me,  what  was  the  good  of 
[  231   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

taking  tlie  berth  to  lead  a  regular  dog's  life  ior  a 
montli  and  then  get  the  sack  at  the  end  of  the  first  trip? 
1'he  fcllov^-,  of  course,  told  me  it  was  ail  nonsense;  there 
has  been  a  plot  hatching  for  years  against  him.  And 
now  it  had  come.  All  the  horrid  sailors  in  the  port  had 
conspired  to  bring  him  to  his  knees,  because  he  was  an 
engineer." 

Captain  Ehott  emitted  a  throaty  chuckle. 

"  And  the  fact  is,  that  if  he  misses  a  couple  more  trips 
he  need  never  trouble  himself  to  start  again.  He  won't 
find  any  cargo  in  his  old  trade.  There's  too  much  com- 
petition nowadays  for  people  to  keep  their  stuff  lying 
about  for  a  ship  that  does  not  turn  up  when  she's  ex- 
pected. It's  a  bad  lookout  for  him.  He  swears  he  will 
shut  himself  on  board  and  starve  to  death  in  his  cabin 
rather  than  sell  her — even  if  he  could  find  a  buyer.  And 
that's  not  likely  in  the  least.  Not  even  the  Japs  would 
give  her  insured  value  for  her.  It  isn't  like  selling 
sailing-ships.  Steamers  do  get  out  of  date,  besides  get- 
ting old." 

"  He  must  have  laid  by  a  good  bit  of  money  though," 
observed  Captain  Whalley  quietly. 

The  Harbor-master  puffed  out  his  purple  cheelis  to 
an  amazing  size. 

"  Not  a  stiver,  Harry.     Not — a — single  sti-ver." 

He  waited;  but  as  Captain  Whalley,  stroking  his 
beard  slowly,  looked  down  on  the  ground  without  a 
word,  he  tapped  him  on  the  forearm,  tiptoed,  and  said 
in  a  hoarse  whisper — 

"  The  Manilla  lottery  has  been  eating  him  up." 

[  232   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

He  fro^vned  a  little,  nodding  in  tiny  affirmative  jerks. 
They  all  were  going  in  for  it;  a  third  of  the  wages 
paid  to  ships'  officers  ("  in  my  port,"  he  snorted)  went 
to  Manilla.  It  was  a  mania.  That  fellow  Massy  had 
been  bitten  by  it  like  the  rest  of  them  from  the  first; 
but  after  winning  once  he  seemed  to  have  persuaded 
himself  he  had  only  to  try  again  to  get  another  big 
prize.  He  had  taken  dozens  and  scores  of  tickets  for 
every  drawing  since.  What  with  this  vice  and  liis  ig- 
norance of  affairs,  ever  since  he  had  improvidently 
'  bought  that  steamer  he  had  been  more  or  less  short  of 
money. 

This,  in  Captain  Eliott's  opinion,  gave  an  opening 
for  a  sensible  sailor-man  with  a  few  pounds  to  step  in 
and  save  that  fool  from  the  consequences  of  liis  folly. 
It  was  his  craze  to  quarrel  with  his  captains.  He  had 
had  some  really  good  men  too,  who  would  have  been 
too  glad  to  stay  if  he  would  only  let  them.  But  no.  He 
seemed  to  think  he  was  no  owner  unless  he  was  kicking 
somebody  out  in  the  morning  and  having  a  row  v/ith 
the  new  man  in  the  evening.  What  was  wanted  for  him 
was  a  master  with  a  couple  of  hundred  or  so  to  take 
an  interest  in  the  ship  on  proper  conditions.  You  don't 
discharge  a  man  for  no  fault,  only  because  of  the  fun 
of  telling  him  to  pack  up  his  traps  and  go  ashore,  wlien 
you  know  that  in  that  case  you  are  bound  to  buy  back 
his  share.  On  the  other  hand^  a  fellow  with  an  interest 
in  the  ship  is  not  likely  to  throw  up  his  job  in  a  huff 
about  a  trifle.  He  had  told  Massy  that.  He  had  said : 
"  '  This  won't  do,  Mr.  Massy.  We  are  getting  very 
[  ^3  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

sick  of  jou  here  in  the  Marine  Onice.  What  jou  must 
do  now  is  to  try  whether  you  could  get  a  sailor  to  join 
you  as  partner.  That  seems  to  be  the  only  way.'  And 
that  was  sound  advice,  Harry." 

Captain  Whalley,  leaning  on  his  stick,  was  perfectly 
still  all  over,  and  his  hand,  arrested  in  the  act  of  strok-  ; 
ing,  grasped  his  whole  beard.     And  what  did  the  fellow 
say  to  that.'^ 

The  fellow  had  the  audacity  to  fly  out  at  the  Master- 
Attendant.  He  had  received  the  advice  in  a  most  im- 
pudent manner.  "  I  didn't  come  here  to  be  laughed  at," 
he  had  shrieked.  "  I  appeal  to  you  as  an  Englishman 
and  a  shipov/ner  brought  to  the  verge  of  ruin  by  an 
illegal  conspiracy  of  your  beggarly  sailors,  and  all  you 
condescend  to  do  for  me  is  to  tell  me  to  go  and  get  a 
partner ! "  .  .  .  The  fellow  had  presumed  to  stamp 
with  rage  on  the  floor  of  the  private  office.  Where  was 
he  going  to  get  a  partner.?  Was  he  being  taken  for 
a  fool.f^  Not  a  single  one  of  that  contemptible  lot  ashore 
at  the  "  Home  "  had  twopence  in  his  pocket  to  bless 
himself  v/ith.  The  very  native  curs  in  the  bazaar  knew 
that  much.  ..."  And  it's  true  enough,  Harry,"  rum- 
bled Captain  Eliott  judicially.  "  They  are  much  more 
likely  one  and  all  to  owe  mone}^  to  the  Chinamen  in 
Denham  Road  for  the  clothes  on  their  backs.  '  Well,' 
said  I,  '  you  make  too  much  noise  over  it  for  my  taste, 
Mr.  ?vlassy.  Good  morning.'  He  banged  the  door  after 
him ;  he  dared  to  bang  my  door,  confound  his  cheek !  " 

The  head  of  the  Marine  department  was  out  of  breath 
with  indignation ;  then  recollecting  himself  as  it  were, 
[  234  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

■'^  I'll  end  by  being  late  to  dinner — yarning  with  you 
here    .    .    .    wife  doesn't  like  it." 

He  clambered  ponderously  into  the  trap ;  leaned  out 
sideways,  and  only  then  wondered  wheezily  what  on 
earth  Captain  Wha-llej^  could  have  been  doing  vrith 
himself  of  late.  They  had  had  no  sight  of  each  other 
for  years  and  years  till  the  other  day  when  he  had  seen 
him  unexpectedly  in  the  ol^ce. 

Wliat  on  earth   .    .    . 

Captain  Whalley  seemed  to  be  smiling  to  himself  in  his 
while  beard. 

"  The  earth  is  big,"  he  said  vaguely. 

The  other,  as  if  to  test  the  statement,  stared  all  round 
from  his  driving-seat.  The  Esplanade  was  very  quiet; 
only  from  afar,  from  very  far,  a  long  way  from  the  sea- 
shore, across  the  stretches  of  grass,  through  the  long 
ranges  of  trees,  came  faintly  the  toot — toot — toot  of 
the  cable  car  beginning  to  roll  before  the  empty  peristyle 
of  the  Public  Library  on  its  three-mile  journey  to  the 
Nevv'  Harbor  Decks. 

"  Doesn't  seem  to  be  so  much  room  on  it,"  growled  the 
Master- Attendant,  "  since  these  Germans  came  along 
shouldering  us  at  every  turn.  It  was  not  so  in  our 
time." 

He  fell  into  deep  thought,  breathing  stertorously,  as 
though  he  had  been  taking  a  nap  open-eyed.  Perhaps 
he  too,  on  his  side,  iiad  detected  in  the  silent  pilgrim- 
lilie  figure,  standing  there  by  the  wheel,  like  an  girrested 
wayfarer,  the  buried  lineaments  of  the  features  belong- 
ing to  the  young  captain  of  the  Condor.  Good  fellow — 
[  235  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Harry  Whalley — never  very  talkative.  You  never 
knew  what  he  was  up  to — a  bit  too  ofF-hand  v/ith  people 
of  consequence,  and  apt  to  take  a  wrong  view  of  a  fel- 
low's actions.  Fact  was  he  had  a  too  good  opinion  of 
liimself.  He  would  have  liked  to  tell  him  to  get  in  and 
drive  him  home  to  dinner.  But  one  never  knew.  Wife 
would  not  like  it. 

"  And  it's  funny  to  think,  Harry,"  he  went  on  in  a 
big,  subdued  drone,  "  that  of  all  the  people  on  it  there 
seems  only  you  and  I  left  to  remember  this  part  of  the 
world  as  it  used  to  be    .    .    ." 

He  was  ready  to  indulge  in  the  sweetness  of  a  senti- 
Miental  mood  had  it  not  struck  him  suddenly  that  Cap- 
tain Whalley,  unstirring  and  without  a  word,  seemed 
to  be  awaiting  something — perhaps  expecting  .  .  .  He 
gathered  the  reins  at  once  and  burst  out  in  bluff,  hearty 


growls- 


'•  Ha !  My  dear  boy.  The  men  we  have  known — the 
ships  we've  sailed — ay !  and  the  things  we've  done   .    .    ." 

The  pony  plunged — the  syce  skipped  out  of  the  way. 
Captain  Whalley  raised  his  arm. 

"  Good-by." 

VI 

Tbe  sun  had  set.  And  when,  after  drilling  a  deep  hole 
with  his  stick,  he  moved  from  that  spot  the  night  had 
massed  its  army  of  shadows  under  the  trees.  They 
filled  the  eastern  ends  of  the  avenues  as  if  only  waiting 
the  signal  for  a  general  advance  upon  the  open  spaces 

[  236  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

of  the  world ;  they  were  gathering  low  between  the  deep 
stone-faced  banks  of  the  canal.  The  Malay  prau,  haif- 
conccaled  under  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  had  not  altered 
its  position  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  For  a  long  time  Cap- 
tain Whalley  stared  down  over  the  parapet,  till  at  hist 
tlie  floating  immobility  of  that  beshrouded  thing  seemed 
to  grow  upon  him  into  something  inexplicable  and 
alarming.  The  twilight  abandoned  the  zenith;  its  re- 
flected gleams  left  the  world  below,  and  the  water  of  the 
canal  seemed  to  turn  into  pitch.  Captain  Whalley 
crossed  it. 

The  turning  to  the  right,  which  was  his  way  to  kis 
hotel,  was  only  a  very  few  steps  farther.  He  stopped 
again  (all  the  houses  of  the  sea-front  w^ere  shut  up,  tiie 
quayside  was  deserted,  but  for  one  or  two  figure*  •f 
natives  walking  in  the  distance)  and  began  to  reckon  tke 
amount  of  his  bill.  So  many  days  in  the  hotel  at  s© 
many  dollars  a  day.  To  count  the  days  he  used  kis 
fingers:  plunging  one  hand  into  his  pocket,  he  jingled  a 
few  silver  coins.  All  right  for  three  days  more;  aad 
then,  unless  something  turned  up,  he  must  break  into 
1.  the  five  hundred — Ivy's  money — invested  in  her  father. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  the  first  meal  coming  out  of  that 
reserve  would  choke  him — for  certain.  Reason  was  of 
no  use.  It  was  a  matter  of  feeling.  His  feelings  had 
never  played  him  false. 

He  did  not  turn  to  the  right.     He  walked  on,  as  if 

there  still  had  been  a  ship  in  the  roadstead  to  which 

he  could  get  himself  pulled   off  in  the  evening.      Far 

away,  beyond   the  houses,   on  the   slope  of  an  indigo 

[  237  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

promontory    closing   the   view   of   the    quays,   the   sHm 
column  of  a   factory-chimney  smoked  quietly  straight' 
up  into  the  clear  air.     A  Chinaman,  curled  down  in  the 
stern  of  one  of  the  half-dozen  sampans  floating  off  the;? 
end  of  the  jetty,  caught  sight  of  a  beckoning  hand.-;!! 
He  jumped  up,  rolled  his  pigtail  round  his  head  swiftly,  | 
tucked  in  two  rapid  movements  his  v/ide  dark  trousera| 
high  up  his  yellow  thighs,  and  by  a  single,  noiseless,  fin^t) 
like  stir  of  the  oars,  sheered  the  sampan  alongside  the^ 
steps    with    the    ease    and    precision    of    a    swimming 
fish. 

"  Sofala,''  articulated  Captain  Whalley  from  above; 
and  the  Chinaman,  a  new  emigrant  probably,  stared 
upwards  with  a  tense  attention  as  if  waiting  to  see  the 
queer  word  fall  visibly  from  the  white  man's  lips. 
"  SofaW  Captain  Whalley  repeated;  and  suddenly  his 
heai-t  failed  him.  He  paused.  The  shores,  the  islets,  the 
high  ground,  the  low  points,  v/ere  dark :  the  horizon  had 
grown  somber ;  and  across  the  eastern  sweep  of  the  shore 
the  white  obelisk,  marking  the  landing-place  of  the 
telegraph-cable,  stood  like  a  pale  gliost  on  the  beach 
before  the  dark  spread  of  uneven  roofs,  intermingled 
with  palms,  of  the  native  town.  Captain  Whalley  be- 
gan again. 

"  Sofala.     Savee  So-fa-la,  John?  " 

This  time  the  Chinaman  made  out  that  bizarre  sound, 
and  grunted  his  assent  uncouthly,  low  down  in  his  bare 
throat.  With  the  first  yellow  twinkle  of  a  star  that  ap- 
peared like  the  head  of  a  pin  stabbed  deep  into  the 
smooth,  pale,  shimmerinp^  fabric  of  the  sky,  the  edge 
[  238  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

cf  a  keen  chill  seemed  to  cleave  through  the  warm  air 
cf  the  earth.  At  the  mom.ent  of  stepping  into  the  sam- 
pan to  go  and  try  for  the  command  of  the  Sofala  Cap- 
tain Whallej  shivered  a  little. 

When  on  his  return  he  landed  on  the  quay  again  Venus, 
like  a  choice  jewel  set  low  on  the  hem  of  the  sky,  cast 
a  faint  gold  trail  behind  him  upon  the  roadstead,  as 
level  as  a  floor  made  of  one  dark  and  polished  stone. 
The  lofty  vaults  of  the  avenues  were  black — all  black 
overhead — and  the  porcelain  globes  on  the  lamp-posts 
resembled  egg-shaped  pearls,  gigantic  and  luminous, 
displayed  in  a  row  whose  farther  end  seemed  to  sink 
in  the  distance^  dovrn  to  the  level  of  his  knees.  He  put 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  He  would  novr  consider 
calmly  the  discretion  of  it  before  saying  the  final  word 
to-morrow.  His  feet  scrunched  the  gravel  loudly — the 
discretion  of  it.  It  would  have  been  easier  to  appraise 
had  there  been  a  workable  alternative.  The  honesty  of 
it  was  indubitable:  he  meant  well  by  the  fellow;  and 
periodically  his  shadow  leaped  up  intense  by  his  side  on 
the  trunks  of  the  trees,  to  lengthen  itself,  oblique  and 
dim,  far  over  the  grass — repeating  his  stride. 

The  discretion  of  it.  Was  there  a  choice?  He  seemed 
already  to  have  lost  something  of  himself;  to  have  given 
up  to  a  hungry  specter  something  of  his  truth  and  dig- 
nity in  order  to  live.  But  his  life  was  necessary.  Let 
poverty  do  its  worst  in  exacting  its  toll  of  humiliation. 
It  was  certain  that  Ned  Eliott  had  rendered  him,  v/ith- 
out  knowing  it,  a  service  for  which  it  would  have  been 
[  239  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

impossible  to  ask.  He  hoped  Ned  would  not  think  there 
iiad  been  something  underhand  in  liis  action.  He  sup- 
jKwed  that  now  when  he  heard  of  it  he  w^ouid  understand 
— or  perhaps  he  v/ould  only  think  Whalley  an  eccentric 
Old  fool.  What  would  have  been  the  good  of  telling 
hitu — any  more  than  of  blurting  the  whole  tale  to  that 
man  Massj'^  ?  Five  hundred  pounds  ready  to  invest.  Let 
him  make  the  best  of  that.  Let  him  wonder.  You  want 
a  captain — I  want  a  ship.  That's  enough.  B-r-r-r-r. 
What  a  disagreeable  impression  that  empty,  dar]:, 
echoing  steamer  had  made  upon  him.    .    .    . 

A  laid-up  steamer  was  a  dead  thing  and  no  mistake ; 
a  sailing-ship  somehow  seems  always  ready  to  spring 
into  life  with  the  breath  of  the  incorruptible  heaven ; 
but  a  steamer,  thought  Captain  Whalley,  with  her  fires 
out,  without  the  v/arm  whiffs  from  below  meeting  3'ou  on 
her  decks,  without  the  hiss  of  steam,  the  clangs  of  iron 
in  Iier  breast — lies  there  as  cold  and  still  and  pulseless  as 
a  corpse. 

In  the  solitude  of  the  avenue,  all  black  above  and 
lighted  below.  Captain  Whalley,  considering  the  dis- 
cretion of  his  course,  met,  as  it  were  incidentallj^,  the 
thought  of  death.  He  pushed  it  aside  with  dislike  and 
contempt.  He  almost  laughed  at  it;  and  in  the  un- 
quenchable vitality  of  his  age  only  thought  with  a  kind 
of  exultation  how  little  he  needed  to  keep  body  and  soul 
together.  Not  a  bad  investment  for  the  poor  woman 
tliis  solid  carcass  of  her  father.  And  for  the  rest — in 
case  of  anything — the  agreement  should  be  clear:  the 
whole  five  hundred  to  be  paid  back  tc  her  integrallT 
[  240  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

within  three  months.  Integrally.  Ever^^  penny.  He 
was  not  to  lose  any  of  her  money  whatever  else  had 
to  go — a  little  dignity — some  of  his  self-respect.  He 
had  never  before  allowed  anybody  to  remain  under  any 
sort  of  false  impression  as  to  himself.  Well,  let  tliat 
go — for  her  sake.  After  all,  he  had  never  said  any- 
thing misleading — and  Captain  Whalley  felt  himself 
corrupt  to  the  marrow  of  his  bones.  He  laughed  a  little 
with  the  intimate  scorn  of  his  w^orldly  prudence. 
Clearly,  with  a  fellow  of  that  sort,  and  in  the  peculiar 
relation  they  were  to  stand  to  each  other,  it  would  not 
have  done  to  blurt  out  everything.  He  did  not  like  the 
fellow.  He  did  not  like  his  spells  of  fawning  loquacity 
and  bursts  of  resentfulness.  In  the  end — a  poor  devil. 
He  would  not  have  liked  to  stand  in  his  shoes.  Mea 
were  not  evil,  after  all.  He  did  not  like  his  sleek  hair, 
his  queer  way  of  standing  at  right  angles,  with  his  nose 
in  the  air,  and  glancing  along  his  shoulder  at  3^ou.  No. 
On  the  whole,  men  were  not  bad — they  were  only  silly 
or  unhappy. 

Captain  Whalley  had  finished  considering  the  discre- 
tion of  that  step — and  there  was  the  whole  Icng  night 
before  him.  In  the  full  light  his  long  beard  would 
glisten  like  a  silver  breastplate  covering  his  heart;  in 
the  spaces  between  the  lamps  his  burly  figure  passed  less 
distinct,  loomed  very  big,  wandering,  and  mysterious. 
No;  there  was  not  much  real  harm  in  men:  and  all  the 
time  a  shadow  marched  with  him,  slanting  on  his  left 
hand — which  in  the  East  is  a  presage  of  evil. 

[  Ml  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Can  you  make  out  the  clump  of  palms  yet,  Serang? ' 
^sked  Captain  Whalley  from  his  chair  on  the  bridge  oi 
the  Sofala  approaching  the  bar  of  Batu  Beru. 

"  No,  Tuan.  By-and-by  see."  The  old  IMala}^,  in  a 
blue  dungaree  suit,  planted  on  his  bony  dark  feet  under 
the  bridge  awning,  put  his  hands  behind  his  back  and 
stared  ahead  out  of  the  innumerable  wrinkles  at  the 
corners  of  his  eyes. 

Captain  Whalley  sat  still,  without  lifting  his  head  to 
look  for  himself.  Three  years — thirty-six  times.  He 
had  made  these  palms  thirty-six  times  from  the  soutli- 
ward.  They  would  come  into  view  at  the  proper  time. 
Thank  God,  the  old  ship  made  her  courses  and  distances 
trip  after  trip,  as  correct  as  clockwork.  At  last  he  mur- 
mured again — 

"In  sight  yet?" 

"  The  sun  makes  a  very  great  glare,  Tuan." 

"  Watch  well,  Serang." 

"  Ya,  Tuan." 

A  white  man  had  ascended  the  ladder  from  the  deck 
noiselessly,  and  had  listened  quietly  to  this  short  col- 
loquy. Then  he  stepped  out  on  the  bridge  and  began 
to  walk  from  end  to  end,  holding  up  the  long  cherry- 
wood  stem  of  a  pipe.  His  black  hair  la}'  plastered  in 
long  lanky  wisps  across  the  ba.ld  smnmit  of  his  head ; 
he  had  a  furrowed  brow,  a  yellow  complexion,  and  a 
thick  shapeless  nose.  A  scanty  growth  of  whisker  did 
not  conceal  the  contour  of  his  jaw.  His  aspect  v/as  cf 
brooding  care;  and  sucking  at  a  curved  black  m.outh- 
piece,  he  presented  such  a  heav}'^  overhanging  profile 
[  242   1 


THE   END    OF    THE    TETHER 

that  even  the  Serang  could  not  help  reflecting  sometimes 
upon  the  extreme  unloveliness  of  some  white  men. 

Captain  Whalley  seemed  to  brace  him.self  up  in  his 
chair,  but  gave  no  recognition  whatever  to  his  presence. 
The  other  puffed  jets  of  smoke;  then  suddenly — 

"  I  could  never  understand  that  new  mania  of  yours 
of  having  this  Mala}^  here  for  3'Our  shadow^,  partner." 

Captain  Whalley  got  up  from  the_  chair  in  all  his  im- 
posing stature  and  walked  across  to  the  binnacle,  hold- 
ing such  an  unswerving  course  that  the  other  had  to 
back  awa}^  hurriedlj^,  and  remained  as  if  intimidated, 
with  the  pipe  trembhng  in  his  hand.  "  Walk  over  me 
now,"  he  muttered  in  a  sort  of  astounded  and  dis- 
comfited whisper.  Then  slowly  and  distinctly  he 
said — 

'  I — am — not — dirt."  And  then  added  defiantly,  "  As 
you  seem  to  think." 

The  Serang  jerked  out — 

"  See  the  palms  now,  Tuan." 

Captain  Whalley  strode  forward  to  the  rail;  but  his 
e3^es,  instead  of  going  straight  to  the  point,  with  the 
assured  keen  glance  of  a  sailor,  wandered  irresolutely 
in  space,  as  though  he,  the  discoverer  of  new  routes,  had 
lost  his  way  upon  this  narrow  sea.  / 

Another  white  man,  the  mate,  came  up  on  the  bridge. 
He  was  tall,  young,  lean,  with  a  mustache  like  a 
trooper,  and  something  malicious  in  the  ere.  He  took 
up  a  position  beside  the  engineer.  Captain  Whalley, 
with  his  back  to  them,  inquired — 

"What's  on  the  loff?  " 

[  243  -J 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Eighty-five,"  answered  the  mate  quickly,  and  nudged 
the  engineer  with  his  elbow. 

Captain  Whalley's  muscular  hands  squeezed  the  iron 
rail  with  an  extraordinary  force;  his  eyes  glared  with 
an  enormous  effort;  he  knitted  his  eyebrows,  the  per- 
spiration fell  from  under  his  hat, — and  in  a  faint  \oice 
he  murmured,  "  Steady  her,  Serang — when  she  is  on 
the  proper  bearing." 

The  silent  Malay  stepped  back,  waited  a  little,  and 
lifted  his  arm  warningly  to  the  helmsman.  The  wheel 
revolved  rapidly  to  meet  the  swing  of  the  ship.  Again 
the  mate  nudged  the  engineer.  But  Massy  turned  upon 
him. 

"  Mr.  Sterne,"  he  said  violently,  "  let  me  tell  you — 
fits  a  shipowner — that  you  are  no  better  than  a  con- 
founded fool." 

VII 

Sterne  went  down  smirking  and  apparently  not  at 
all  disconcerted,  but  the  engineer  Mass}^  remained  on 
the  bridge,  moving  about  with  uneasy  self-assertion. 
Everybody  on  board  was  his  inferior — everyone  with- 
out exception.  He  paid  their  wages  and  found  them  in 
their  food.  They  ate  more  of  his  bread  and  pocketed 
more  of  his  money  than  they  were  worth;  and  they  had 
no  care  in  the  world,  while  he  alone  had  to  meet  all  tlie 
difficulties  of  shipowning.  When  he  contemplated  his 
position  in  all  its  menacing  entirety,  it  seemed  to  him 
that  he  had  been  for  years  the  prey  of  a  band  of  para- 
[  244   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

sites:  and  for  years  he  had  scowled  at  everybody  con- 
nected with  the  Sofala  except,  perhaps,  at  the  Chinese 
firemen  who  served  to  get  her  along.  Their  use  vras 
manifest:  they  were  an  indispensable  part  of  the  ma- 
chinery of  which  he  was  the  master. 

When  he  passed  along  his  decks  he  shouldered  those 
he  came  across  brutally ;  but  the  Malay  deck  hands  had 
learned  to  dodge  out  of  his  way.  He  had  to  bring  him- 
self to  tolerate  them  because  of  the  necessary  manual 
labor  of  the  ship  which  must  be  done.  He  had  t® 
struggle  and  plan  and  scheme  to  keep  the  Sofala  afloat 
— and  what  did  he  get  for  it?  Not  even  enough  respect. 
They  could  not  have  given  him  enough  of  that  if  all 
their  thoughts  and  all  their  actions  had  been  directed 
to  that  end.  The  vanity  of  possession,  the  vainglory 
of  power,  had  passed  awa}^  by  this  time,  and  there  re- 
tnaincd  only  the  material  embarrassments,  the  fear  of 
losing  that  position  which  had  turned  out  not  worlh 
having,  and  an  anxiety  of  thought  which  no  abject  sub- 
servience of  men  could  repay. 

He  walked  up  and  down.  The  bridge  was  his  own 
after  all.  He  had  paid  for  it;  and  with  the  stem  of 
the  pipe  in  liis  hand  he  would  stop  short  at  times  as 
if  to  listen  with  a  profound  and  concentrated  attention 
to  the  deadened  beat  of  the  engines  (his  own  engines) 
and  the  slight  grinding  of  the  steering  chains  upon  the 
continuous  low  wash  of  water  alongside.  But  for  these 
sounds,  the  ship  might  have  been  lying  as  still  as  if 
moored  to  a  bank,  and  as  silent  as  if  abandoned  by  every 
living  soul;  only  the  coast,  the  low  coast  of  mud  and 
[  245  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

man  groves  with  the  three  palms  in  a  bunch  at  the  bac:: 
grew  slowly  more  distinct  in  its  long  straight  line,  v\-ilii 
out  a  single  feature  to  arrest  attention.  The  nativ 
passengers  of  the  Sofala  la,y  about  on  mats  under  tl^ 
awnings ;  the  smoke  of  her  funnel  seemed  the  only  si^.- 
of  her  life  and  connected  with  her  gliding  motion  in  i\ 
mysterious  manner. 

Captain  Whalley  on  his  feet,  with  a  pair  of  binoculari 
in  his  hand  and  the  little  Malay  Serang  at  his  elbow, 
like  an  old  giant  attended  by  a  wizened  pigmy,  was  tak- 
incc  her  over  the  shallow  water  of  the  bar. 

This  submarine  ridge  of  mud,  scoured  by  the  strean 
out  of  the  soft  bottom  of  the  river  and  heaped  up  fai 
out  on  the  hard  bottom  of  the  sea,  was  difficult  to  get 
over.  The  alluvial  coast  having  no  distinguishing 
marks,  the  bearings  of  the  crossing-place  had  to  be 
taken  from  the  shape  of  the  mountains  inland.  The 
guidance  of  a  form  flattened  and  uneven  at  the  top  like 
a  grinder  tooth,  and  of  another  smooth,  saddle-backed ^ 
summit,  had  to  be  searched  for  within  the  great  un-i 
clouded  glare  that  seemed  to  shift  and  float  like  a  dry| 
fler}^  mist,  filling  the  air,  ascending  from  the  water, 
shrouding  the  distances,  scorching  to  the  eye.  In  this 
veil  of  light  the  near  edge  of  the  shore  alone  stood 
out  almost  coal-black  v/ith  an  opaque  and  motionless 
solidity.  Thirty  miles  away  the  serrated  range  of  the 
interior  stretched  across  the  horizon,  its  outlines  and 
shades  of  blue,  faint  and  tremulous  like  a  background 
painted  on  airy  gossamer  on  the  quivering  fabric  of  an 
impalpable  curtain  let  down  to  the  plain  of  alluvial  soil; 
[  2^6  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

xnd  the  openings  of  the  estuary  appeared,  shining 
white,  hke  bits  of  silver  let  into  the  square  pieces  snipped 
clean  and  sharp  out  of  the  body  of  the  land  bordered 
with  mangroves. 

On  the  forepart  of  the  bridge  the  giant  and  the  pigmy 
puttered  to  each  other  frequently  in  quiet  tones.     Be- 
hind them  Massy  stood  sideways  with  an  expression  of 
disdain  and  suspense  on  his   face.      His   globular  e^^es 
were  perfectly  motionless,  and  he  seemed  to  have  for- 
gotten the  long  pipe  he  held  in  his  hand. 
On  the  fore-deck  below  the  bridge,  steepl}^  roofed  with 
the  white  slopes  of  the  awnings,  a  young  lascar  seaman 
had  clambered  outside  the  rail.     He  adjusted  quickly 
,  broad   band   of   sail   canvas   under   his   armpits,   and 
hrov.ing  his  chest  against  it,  leaned  out  far  over  the 
rr.tcr.     TliG  sleeve  of  his  ':hi:i  cotton  shirt,  cut  off  close 
o  the  shoulder,  bared  his  brown  arm  of  full  rounded 
form  and  v*'ith  a  satiny  skin  like  a  woman's.     He  swung 
t   rigidly   with  the  rotar}^  and  menacing  action   of  a 
dinger:  the   14-lb.   weight  hurtled  circling  in  the  air, 
hen  suddenly  flew  ahead  as  far  as  the  curve  of  the  bow. 
Fhe  wet  thin  line  swished  like  scratched  silk  running 
hrough  the  dark  fingers  of  the  man,  and  the  plunge  of 
he  lead  close  to  the  ship's  side  made  a  vanishing  silvery 
car  upon  the  golden  glitter ;  then  after  an  interval  the 
oice  of  the  young  Malay  uplifted  and  long-drawn  de- 
jlared  the  depth  of  the  water  In  his  own  language. 

Tiga  stengah,"  he  cried  after  each  splash  and  pause, 
fathering  the  line  busily  for  another  cast.  "  Tiga 
tengah,"  which  means  three  fathom  and  a  half.     For 

[  ^^^   ] 


THE   END    OF    THE   TETHER 

a  mile  or  so  from  seaward  there  was  a  uniform  depth 
of  water  right  up  to  the  bar.  "  Half-tliree.  Half- 
three.  Half-three," — and  his  modulated  cry,  returned 
leisurely  and  monotonous,  like  the  repeated  call  of  a 
bird,  seemed  to  float  away  in  sunshine  and  disappear  in 
the  spacious  silence  of  the  empty  sea  and  of  a  lifeless 
shore  lying  open,  north  and  south,  east  and  west,  v/ith- 
out  the  stir  of  a  single  cloud-shadow  or  the  whisper  of 
any  other  voice. 

The  owner-engineer  of  the  Sofala  remained  very  still 
behind  the  two  seamen  of  different  race,  creed,  and 
color;  the  European  with  the  time-defying  vigor  of 
his  old  frame,  the  little  Malay,  old,  too,  but  slight  and 
shrunken  like  a  withered  brown  leaf  blown  by  a  chance 
wind  under  the  mighty  shadow  of  the  other.  Very 
busy  looking  forward  at  the  land,  they  had  not  a  glance 
to  spare;  and  Massy,  glaring  at  them  from  behind, 
seemed  to  resent  their  attention  to  their  duty  like  a  per' 
sonal  slight  upon  himself. 

This  was  unreasonable;  but  he  had  lived  in  his  ow»i 
world  of  unreasonable  resentments  for  many  years.  At 
last,  passing  his  moist  palm  over  the  rare  lanky  wisps 
of  coarse  hair  on  the  top  of  his  yellow  head,  he  began 
to  talk  slowly. 

"  A  leadsman,  you  want !  I  suppose  that's  your  cor- 
rect mail-boat  style.  Haven't  you  enough  judgment 
to  tell  where  you  are  by  looking  at  the  land?  Why, 
before  I  had  been  a  twelvemonth  in  the  trade  I  was  up 
to  that  trick — and  I  am  only  an  engineer.  I  can  point 
to  you  from  here  where  the  bar  is,  and  I  could  tell  y«u 
[  248  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

besides  that  you  are  as  likely  as  not  to  stick  her  in  the 
mud  in  about  five  minutes  from  now;  only  you  would 
call  it  interfering,  I  suppose.  And  there's  that  w^ritten 
agreement  of  ours,  that  sa^'^s  I  mustn't  interfere." 

His  voice  stopped.  Captain  Whalley,  without  relax- 
ing the  set  severit}^  of  his  features,  moved  his  lips  to  ask 
,in  a  quick  mumble — 

"  How  near,  Serang.^  " 

"  Very  near  now,  Tuan,"  the  Malay  muttered  rapidly. 
\  **  Dead  slow,"  said  the  Captain  aloud  in  a  firm  tone. 

The  Serang  snatched  at  the  handle  of  the  telegraph, 
A  gong  clanged  down  below.  Massy  with  a  scornful 
snigger  walked  off  and  put  his  head  down  the  engine- 

oom  skylight. 

"  You  may  expect  some  rare  fooling  with  the  engines, 
Jack,"  he  bellowed.  The  space  into  which  he  stared  was 
deep  and  full  of  gloom;  and  the  gray  gleams  of  steel 
down  there  seemed  cool  after  the  intense  glare  of  the 
sea  around  the  ship.  The  air,  however,  came  up  clammy 
and  hot  on  his  face.  A  short  hoot  on  which  it  would 
[have  been  impossible  to  put  any  sort  of  interpretation 
came  from  the  bottom  cavernousb/.  This  was  the  way 
in  v/hich  the  second  engineer  answered  his  chief. 

He  was  a  middle-aged  man  with  an  inattentive  man- 
ner, and  apparently  wrapped  up  in  such  a  taciturn  con- 
i  cern  for  his  engines  that  he  seemed  to  have  lost  the  use 
of  speech.  When  addressed  directly  his  only  answer 
would  be  a  grunt  or  a  hoot,  according  to  the  distance. 
I  For  all  the  years  he  had  been  in  the  Sofala  he  had  never 
lieeo  known  to  exchange  as  much  as  a  frank  Good-mom 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

ing  v/ith  any  of  his  sliipmates.  He  did  not  seem  avrai 
that  men  came  and  went  in  the  world;  he  did  not  seei 
to  see  them  at  alL  Indeed  he  never  recognized  his  shif 
mates  on  shore.  At  table  (the  four  white  men  of  th 
Sofala  messed  together). he  sat  looking  into  his  plat 
dispassionately,  but  at  the  end  of  the  meal  would  jum] 
up  and  bolt  down  below  as  if  a  sudden  thought  had  im 
pellcd  him  to  rush  and  see  whether  somebody  had  no 
stolen  the  engines  while  he  dined.  In  port  at  the  end  o: 
the  trip  he  went  ashore  regularly,  but  no  one  kne\ 
where  he  spent  his  evenings  or  in  what  manner.  Th 
local  coasting  fleet  had  preserved  a  wild  and  incoheren 
tale  of  his  infatuation  for  the  wife  of  a  sergeant  in  ai 
Irish  infantry  regiment.  The  regiment,  however,  hac 
done  its  turn  of  garrison  duty  there  ages  before,  ano 
was  gone  somewhere  to  the  other  side  of  the  eaiih,  oul 
of  men's  knowledge.  Twice  or  perhaps  three  times  ii 
the  course  of  the  year  he  would  take  too  much  to  drinki 
On  these  occasions  he  returned  on  board  at  an  earliei 
hour  than  usual ;  ran  across  the  deck  balancing  himself 
with  his  spread  arms  like  a  tight-rope  walker;  and 
locking  the  door  of  his  cabin,  he  would  converse  and 
argue  with  himself  the  livelong  night  in  an  amazing 
variety  of  tones;  storm,  sneer,  and  whine  vrith  an  inex-i 
haustible  persistence.  Massy  in  his  berth  next  door^ 
raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  would  discover  that  his 
second  had  remembered  the  name  of  every  white  man 
that  had  passed  through  the  Sofala  for  years  and  3'ears 
back.  He  remembered  the  names  of  men  that  had  died, 
that  had  gone  home,  that  had  gone  to  America:  he 
1   250   j 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

remembered  in  his  cups  the  names  of  men  whose  con-^ 
nccticn  with  the  ship  had  been  so  short  that  Massy  had 
almost  forgotten  its  circumstances  and  could  barely  re- 
call tlieir  faces.  The  inebriated  voice  on  the  other  side 
of  the  bulkhead  commented  upon  them  all  with  an  ex- 
trr. ordinary  and  ingenious  venom  of  scandalous  inven- 
i  l;:is.  It  seems  they  had  all  offended  him  in  some  way,' 
and  in  return  he  had  found  them  all  out.  He  muttered 
darkly ;  he  laughed  sardonically ;  he  crushed  them  one 
after  another;  but  of  his  chief,  Massy,  he  babbled  with 
an  envious  and  naive  admiration.  Clever  scoundrel! 
Don't  meet  the  likes  of  him  every  day.  Just  look  at 
him.  Ha !  Great !  Ship  of  his  own.  Wouldn't  catch 
him  going  wrong.  No  fear — the  beast!  And  Massy, 
after  listening  with  a  gratified  smile  to  these  artless 
tributes  to  his  greatness,  would  begin  to  shout,  thump- 
ing at  the  bulkhead  with  both  fists — 
"  Shut   up,   you    lunatic !      Won't   you   let   me   go   to 

.  sleep,  you  fool !  " 

But  a  half  smile  of  pride  lingered  on  his  lips ;  outside 

j  the  solitary  lascar  told  off  for  night  duty   in  harbor, 

I  perhaps  a  j^outh  fresh  from  a  forest  village,  would  stand 
motionless  in  the  shadows  of  the  deck  listening  to  the 
endless  drunken  gabble.  His  heart  would  be  thumping 
with  breathless  awe  of  white  men:  the  arbitrary  and 
obstinate    men    who    pursue ,  inflexibly    their    incompre- 

i  hensible  purposes, — beings  v/ith  v/eird  intonations  in  the 
voice,  moved  by  unaccountable  feelings,  actuated  by  in- 
scrutable motives. 

[  -251  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 


VIII 

For  a  while  after  his  second's  answering  hoot  Massy 
hung  over  the  engine-room  gloomily.  Captain  Wlial- 
ley,  who,  by  the  power  of  five  hundred  pounds,  had  kept 
his  command  for  three  years,  might  have  been  suspected 
of  never  having  seen  that  coast  before.  He  seemed  un- 
able to  put  dovrn  his  glasses,  as  though  they  had  been 
glued  under  his  contracted  eyebrows.  This  settled 
frown  gave  to  liis  face  an  air  of  invincible  and  just 
severity;  but  his  raised  elbow  trembled  slightly,  and 
the  perspiration  poured  from  under  his  hat  as  if  a 
second  sun  had  suddenly  blazed  up  at  the  zenith  by  the 
side  of  the  ardent  still  globe  already  there,  in  whose 
blinding  white  heat  the  earth  whirled  and  shone  like  a 
mote  of  dust. 

From  time  to  time,  still  holding  up  his  glasses,  he 
raised  his  other  hand  to  wipe  his  streaming  face.  The 
drops  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  fell  like  rain  upop.  llie 
white  hairs  of  his  beard,  and  brusquely,  as  if  guided 
by  an  uncontrollable  and  anxious  impulse,  his  arm 
reached  out  to  the  stand  of  tlie  engine-room  telegTaph. 

The  gong  clanged  down  below.  The  balanced  vibra- 
tion of  the  dead-slow  speed  ceased  together  with  every 
sound  and  tremor  in  the  ship,  as  if  the  great  stillness 
that  reigned  upon  the  coast  had  stolen  in  througli  lier 
sides  of  iron  and  taken  possession  of  her  innermost  re- 
cesses. The  illusion  of  perfect  immobility  seemed  to 
fall  upon  her  from  the  luminous  blue  dome  without  a 
r  252  ] 


i 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

stain  arching  over  a  fiat  .sea  without  a  stir.  The  faint 
breeze  she  had  made  for  herself  expired,  as  if  all  at 
once  the  air  had  become  too  thick  to  budge;  even  the 
slifjht  hiss  of  the  water  on  her  stem  died  out.  The  nar- 
row,  long  hull,  carrying  its  way  without  a  ripple, 
seemed  to  approach  the  shoal  water  of  the  bar  by 
stealth.  The  plunge  of  the  lead  with  the  mournful, 
mechanical  cry  of  the  lascar  came  at  longer  and  longer 
intervals;  and  the  men  on  her  bridge  seemed  to  hold 
their  breath.  The  Malay  at  the  helm  looked  fixedly 
at  the  compass  card,  the  Captain  and  the  Seran^j  stared 
at  the  coast. 

Massy  had  left  the  skylight,  and,  walking  flat-footed^ 
had  returned  softl}^  to  tlie  ver}^  spot  on  the  bridge  he 
had  occupied  before.  A  slow,  lingering  grin  exposed 
his  set  of  big  white  teeth :  they  gleamed  evenly  in  the 
shade  of  the  awning  like  the  keyboard  of  a  piano  in  a 
dusky  room. 

At  last,  pretending  to  talk  to  himself  in  excessive  as- 
tonisliment,  he  said  not  very  loud — 

"  Stop  the  engines  now.     What  next,  I  wonder?  " 

He  waited,  stooping  from  the  shoulders,  his  head 
bowed,  his  glance  oblique.  Then  raising  his  voice  a 
shade — 

"  If  I  dared  make  an  absurd  remark  I  would  say  that 
you  haven't  the  stomach  to   .    .    ." 

But  a  yelling  spirit   of  excitement,  like  some  frantic 

soul  wandering  unsuspected  in  the  vast  stillness  of  the 

coast,  had  seized  upon  the  body  of  the  lascar  at  the  lead. 

The  languid  monotony  of  his  sing-song  changed  to  a 

[  253  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

swift,  sharp  clamor.  The  weight  flew  after  a  single 
whir,  the  line  whistled,  splash  followed  splash  in  haste 
The  water  had  shoaled,  and  the  man,  instead  of  the 
drovrsy  tale  of  fathoms,  was  calling  out  the  soundings 
in  feet. 

"  Fifteen  feet.  Fifteen,  fifteen !  Fourteen,  four- 
teen   .    .    ." 

taptain  Whallej  lowered  the  arm  holding  the  glasses. 
It  descended  slowly  as  if  by  its  own  weight;  no  other 
part  of  his  towering  body  stirred;  and  the  swift  cries 
with  their  eager  warning  note  passed  him  by  as  though 
he  had  been  deaf. 

Massy,  very  still,  and  turning  an  attentive  ear,  liad 
fastened  his  eyes  upon  the  silvery,  close-cropped  back 
of  the  steady  old  head.  The  ship  herself  seemed  to  be 
arrep-ted  but  for  the  gradual  decrease  of  depth  under 
her  keel. 

"  Thirteen  feet  .  .  .  Thirteen !  Twelve ! "  cried  the 
leadsman  anxiously  below  the  bridge.  And  suddenly 
the  barefooted  Serang  stepped  away  noiselessly  to  steal 
a  glance  over  the  side. 

Narrow  of  shoulder,  in  a  suit  of  faded  blue  cotton,  an 
old  gray  felt  hat  rammed  down  on  his  head,  with  a  hollow 
in  the  nape  of  his  dark  neck,  and  with  his  slender  limbs, 
he  appeared  from  the  back  no  bigger  than  a  boy  of 
fourteen.  There  was  a  childlike  impulsiveness  in  the 
curiosity  with  which  he  watched  the  spread  of  the 
voluminous,  yellowish  convolutions  rolling  up  from  be- 
low to  the  surface  of  the  blue  water  like  massive  clouds 
driving  slowly  upwards  on  the  unfathomable  sky-  He 
[  254  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

was  not  startled  at  the  sight  in  the  least.  It  was  not 
doubt,  but  the  certitude  that  the  keel  of  the  Sofala  must 
be  stirring  the  mud  now,  which  made  him  peep  over  the 
3ide. 

His  peering  ej^es,  set  aslant  in  a  face  of  the  Chinese 
type,  a  little  old  face,  immovable,  as  if  carved  in  old 
brown  oak,  had  informed  him  long  before  that  the  ship 
was  not  headed  at  the  bar  properly.  Paid  off  from 
the  Fair  Maid,  together  with  the  rest  of  the  crew,  after 
the  completion  of  the  sale,  he  had  hung,  in  his  faded 
blue  suit  and  floppy  gray  hat,  about  the  doors  of  the 
Harbor  OfSce,  till  one  day,  seeing  Captain  Whalley 
coming  along  to  get  a  crew  for  the  Sofala,  he  had  put 
himself  quietly  in  the  way,  with  his  bare  feet  in  the  dust 
and  an  upward  mute  glance.  The  eyes  of  his  old  com- 
mander had  fallen  on  him  favorably — it  must  have 
been  an  auspicious  day — and  in  less  than  half  an  hour 
the  white  men  in  the  "  Ofiss  "  had  written  his  name  on 
a  documxcnt  as  Serang  of  the  fire-ship  Sofala.  Since 
that  time  he  had  repeatedly  looked  at  that  estuary,  upon 
that  coast,  from  tliis  bridge  and  from  this  side  of  the 
bar.  The  record  of  the  visual  world  fell  through  his 
eyes  upon  his  unspeculating  mind  as  on  a  sensitized 
plate  through  the  lens  of  a  camera.  His  knowledge  was 
absolute  and  precise;  nevertheless,  had  he  been  asked 
his  opinion,  and  especially  if  questioned  in  the  down- 
right, alarming  manner  of  white  men,  he  would  have 
displayed  the  hesitation  of  ignorance.  He  was  certain 
of  his  facts — ^but  such  a  certitude  counted  for  little 
against  the  doubt  what  answer  would  be  pleasing. 
[  255  ] 


TPIE    END    OF    TliE    TETHER 

Fifty  3'ears  ago,  in  a  jungle  village,  and  before  hi:  was 
a  day  old,  his  father  (who  died  without  ever  seeing 
a  white  face)  had  had  his  nativity  cast  by  a  man  of 
skill  and  wisdom  in  astrology,  because  in  the  arrange- 
ment of  the  stars  may  be  read  the  last  word  of  human 
destiny.  His  destiny  had  been  to  thrive  by  the  fuvor 
of  various  white  men  on  the  sea.  He  had  swept  the 
decks  of  ships,  had  tended  their  helms,  had  minded  their 
stores,  had  risen  at  last  to  be  a  Serang ;  and  his  placid 
mind  had  remained  as  incapable  of  penetrating  the  sim- 
plest motives  of  those  he  served  as  they  themselves  v/ere 
incapable  of  detecting  through  the  crust  of  the  earth 
the  secret  nature  of  its  heart,  which  may  be  fire  or  may 
be  stone.  But  he  had  no  doubt  whatever  that  the  Sofala 
was  out  of  the  proper  track  for  crossing  the  bar  at 
Batu  Beru. 

It  was  a  slight  error.  The  ship  could  not  have  been 
more  than  twice  her  own  length  too  far  to  the  north- 
ward; and  a  w^hite  man  at  a  loss  for  a  cause  (since  it 
was  impossible  to  suspect  Captain  Whalley  of  blunder- 
ing ignorance,  of  want  of  skill,  or  of  neglect)  would 
liave  been  inclined  to  doubt  the  testimony  of  his  senses. 
It  was  some  such  feeling  that  kept  Massy  motionless, 
with  his  teeth  laid  bare  b}^  an  anxious  grin.  Not  so  the 
Serang.  He  was  not  troubled  by  any  intellectual  mis- 
trust of  his  senses.  If  his  captain  chose  to  stir  the  mud 
it  was  well.  He  had  known  in  his  life  white  men  indulge 
in  outbreaks  equally  strange.  He  was  only  genuinely 
interested  to  see  what  would  come  of  it.  At  last,  appar- 
ently  satisfied,  he  stepped  back   from  the  rail. 

[  256  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

He  had  made  no  sound:  Captain  Whalley,  howevei-, 
seemed  to  have  observed  the  movements  of  his  Serang* 
Holding  his  head  rigidly,  he  asked  with  a  mere  stir  of 
his  lips — 

"  Going  ahead  still,  Serang?  " 

"  Still  going  a  little,  Tuan,"  answered  the  Malay- 
Then  added  casually,  "  She  is  over." 

The  lead  confirmed  his  words;  the  depth  of  water  in- 
creased at  every  cast,  and  the  soul  of  excitement  de- 
parted suddenly  from  the  lascar  swung  in  the  canvas 
belt  over  the  SofaWs  side.  Captain  Whalley  or- 
dered the  lead  in,  set  the  engines  ahead  without  haste, 
and  averting  his  eyes  from  the  coast  directed  the 
Serang  to  keep  a  course  for  the  middle  of  the  en- 
trance. 

Massy  brought  the  palm  of  his  hand  with  a  loud  smack 
against  his  thigh. 

*'  You  grazed  on  the  bar.  Just  look  astern  and  see 
if  you  didn't.  Look  at  the  track  she  left.  You  can  see 
it  plainly.  Upon  my  soul,  I  thought  you  would !  What 
made  you  do  that.?  What  on  earth  made  you  do  that? 
I  believe  you  are  trying  to  scare  me." 

He  talked  slowly,  as  it  were  circumspectly,  keeping  his 
prominent  black  eyes  on  his  captain.  There  was  also  a 
slight  plaintive  note  in  his  rising  choler,  for,  primarily, 
it  was  the  clear  sense  of  a  wrong  suffered  undeservedly 
that  made  him  hate  the  man  who,  for  a  beggarly  five 
hundred  pounds,  claimed  a  sixth  part  of  the  profits 
under  the  three  years'  agreement.  Whenever  his  resent- 
ment  got  the  better  of  the  awe  the  person  of  Captain 
[  ^^'7   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Whalley  inspired  he  would  positively  whimper  with 
fury. 

"  You  don't  know  what  to  invent  to  plague  my  life 
out  of  me.  I  would  not  have  thought  that  a  man  of 
3^our  sort  would  condescend    .    .    ." 

He  paused,  half  hopefully,  half  timidly,  whenever 
Captain  "Wlialley  made  the  slightest  movement  in  the 
deck-chair,  as  though  expecting  to  be  conciliated  b}^  a 
soft  speech  or  else  rushed  upon  and  hunted  off  the 
bridge. 

"  I  am  puzzled,"  he  went  on  again,  with  the  watchful 
unsmiling  baring  of  his  big  teeth.  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  think.  I  do  believe  you  are  trying  to  frighten  me. 
You  very  nearly  planted  her  on  the  bar  for  at  least 
twelve  hours,  besides  getting  the  engines  choked  with 
mud.  Ships  can't  afford  to  lose  twelve  hours  on  a  trip 
nowadays — as  you  ought  to  know  very  well,  and  do 
know  very  well  to  be  sure,  only    .    .    ." 

His  slow  volubility,  the  sideways  cranings  of  his  neck, 
the  black  glances  out  of  the  very  corners  of  his  eyes, 
left  Captain  Whalley  unmoved.  He  looked  at  the  deck 
with  a  severe  frown.  Massy  waited' for  some  little  time, 
then  began  to  threaten  plaintively. 

"  You  think  you've  got  me  bound  hand  and  foot  in 
that  agreement.  You  think  you  can  torment  me  in  any 
way  you  please.  Ah !  But  remember  it  has  another 
six  weeks  to  run  yet.  There's  time  for  me  to  dismiss 
you  before  the  three  years  are  out.  You  will  do  yet 
something  that  will  fr'ive  me  the  chance  to  dismiss  you, 
and  make  you  wait  a  twelvemonth  for  your  money  before. 
[  258  ] 


THE    END   OF    THE    TETHER 

you  can  take  yourself  ofi  and  pull  out  your  five  hundred, 
and  leave  me  without  a  penny  to  get  the  new  boilers  for 
hor.  You  gloat  over  that  idea — don't  you?  I  do  be- 
lieve you  sit  here  gloating.  It's  as  if  I  had  sold  my 
soul  for  five  hundred  pounds  to  be  everlastingly  damned 
in  the  end.    .    .    ." 

He  paused,  without  apparent  exasperation,  then  con- 
tinued evenly — 

"...  With  the  boilers  worn  out  and  the  survey  hang- 
ing   over    my    head,    Captain    Whalley Captain 

Whalley,  I  say,  what  do  3^ou  do  with  your  money  .^^  You 
must  have  stacks  of  money  somewhere — a  man  like  you 
must.  It  stands  to  reason.  I  am  not  a  fool,  you  know. 
Captain  Whalley — partner." 

Again  he  paused,  as  though  he  had  done  for  good. 
He  passed  his  tongue  over  his  lips,  gave  a  backward 
glance  at  the  Serang  conning  the  ship  with  quiet  whis- 
pers and  slight  signs  of  the  hand.  The  wash  of  the 
propeller  sent  a  sv/ift  ripple,  crested  with  dark  froth, 
upon  a  long  flat  spit  of  black  slime.  The  Sofala  had 
entered  the  river;  the  trail  she  had  stirred  up  over  the 
bar  was  a  mile  astern  of  her  now,  out  of  sight,  had  dis- 
appeared utterly;  and  the  smooth,  empty  sea  along  the 
coast  was  left  behind  in  the  glittering  desolation  of  sun- 
shine. On  each  side  of  her,  low  down,  the  growth  of 
somber  twisted  mangroves  covered  the  semi-liquid  banks ; 
and  Massy  continued  in  his  old  tone,  with  an  abrupt 
start,  as  if  his  speech  had  been  ground  out  of  him,  like 
the  tune  of  a  music-box,  by  turning  a  handle. 

"  Though  if  anybody  ever  got  the  best  of  me,  it  is  you. 

[  259  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

I  don't  mind  saying  this.  I've  said  it — there!  What 
more  can  you  want?  Isn't  that  enough  for  your  pride. 
Captain  Whalley.  You  got  over  me  from  the  first.  It's 
all  of  a  piece,  when  I  look  back  at  it.  You  allowed  me 
to  insert  that  clause  about  intemperance  without  saying 
anything,  only  looking  very  sick  when  I  made  a  point 
of  it  going  in  black  on  white.  How  could  I  tell  what 
was  wrong  about  you?  There's  generally  something 
wrong  somewhere.  And,  lo  and  behold!  when  you 
come  on  board  it  turns  out  that  you've  been  in  the 
habit  of  drinking  nothing  but  water  for  years  and 
years." 

His  dogmatic  reproachful  whine  stopped.  He  brooded 
profoundlA^  after  the  manner  of  crafty  and  unintelli- 
gent men.  It  seemed  inconceivable  that  Captain 
Whalley  should  not  laugh  at  the  expression  of  disgust 
Ihat  overspread  the  heavy,  yellow  countenance.  But 
Captain  Whalley  never  raised  his  eyes — sitting  in  his 
armchair,  outraged,  dignified,  and  motionless. 

*'Much  good  it  was  to  me,"  Massy  remonstrated  I 
monotonously,  "  to  insert  a  clause  of  dismissal  for  in- 
temperance against  a  man  who  drinks  nothing  but  water. 
And  jou  looked  so  upset,  too,  when  I  read  my  draft  in 
the  lawyer's  office  that  morning.  Captain  Whalley, — 
ytm  looked  so  crestfallen,  that  I  made  sure  I  had  gone 
home  on  yovur  weak  spot.  A  sliipowner  can't  he  too 
careful  as  to  the  sort  of  skipper  he  gets.  You  must 
have  been  laughing  at  me  in  your  sleeve  all  the  blessed 
time..   ,  '.   -    Eh.?     What  are  you  going  to  say.?" 

Captain  WhaUey  had  only  shuffled  his  feet  slightly, 

r  260 1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

A  dull  animosity  became  apparent  in  Massy's  sideways 
stare. 

"•  But  recollect  that  there  are  other  grounds  of  dis~ 
missal.  There's  habitual  carelessness,  amounting  to  in-- 
competence — there's  gross  and  persistent  neglect  of 
duty.  I  am  not  quite  as  big  a  fool  as  you  try  to  make 
me  out  to  be.  You  have  been  careless  of  late — ^leaving 
everything  to  that  Serang.  Why  1  I've  seen  you  let- 
ting that  old  fool  of  a  Malay  take  bearings  for  you, 
as  if  you  were  too  big  to  attend  to  your  work  yourself. 
And  what  do  you  call  that  silly  touch-and-go  manner 
in  which  you  took  the  ship  over  the  bar  just  now?  You 
expect  me  to  put  up  with  that?  " 

Leaning  on  his  elbow  against  the  ladder  abaft  the 
bridge,  Sterne,  the  mate,  tried  to  hear,  blinking  the 
while  from  the  distance  at  the  second  engineer,  who  had 
come  up  for  a  moment,  and  stood  in  the  engine-room 
companion.  Wiping  liis  hands  on  a  bunch  of  cotton 
waste,  he  looked  about  with  indifference  to  the  ri^t 
and  left  at  the  river  banks  slipping  astern  of  the 
Sofala  steadily. 

?klassy  turned  full  at  the  chair.  The  character  of  h^ 
whine  became  again  threatening. 

"  Take  care.  I  may  yet  dismiss  you  and  freeze  to  your 
money  for  a  year.     I  may   .    .    ." 

But  before  the  silent,  rigid  immobility  of  the  vasm 
whose  money  had  come  in  the  nick  of  time  to  save  him 
from  utter  ruin,  his  voice  died  out  in  his  throat, 

"  Not  that  I  want  you  to  go,"  he  resumed  a*fter  a  si« 
lence,  and  in  an  absurdly  insinuating  tone.     "I  want 

I  [  261  ] 


T  K  E   E  N  D   O  F   T  II  E   1  E  T  II  E  R 

nothing  better  than  to  be  friends  and  renew  the  agreed  i 
ment,  if  you  will  consent  to  find  another  couple  of  hun 
dred  to   help  with  the  new  boilers,   Captain  Whalley'jL 
I've  told  you  before.     She  must  have  new  boilers;  3^01 
know  it  as  well  as  I  do.     Have  you  thought  this  over?  ' 

He  waited.  The  slender  stem  of  the  pipe  with  it.' 
bulky  lump  of  a  bowl  at  the  end  hung  down  from  his 
thick  lips.  It  had  gone  out.  Suddenly  he  took  it  from 
between  his  teeth  and  wrung  his  hands  slightl}^ 

"Don't  you  believe  me.^  "  He  thrust  the  pipe  bowl 
into  the  pocket  of  his  shiny  black  jacket. 

"It's  like  dealing  with  the  devil,"  he  said.  "Why 
don't  you  speak  ?  At  first  you  were  so  high  and  mighty 
with  me  I  hardly  dared  to  creep  about  my  own  deck. 
Now  I  can't  get  a  word  from  you.  You  don't  seem  to 
see  me  at  all.  What  does  it  mean.?  Upon  my  soul,  you 
terrify  me  with  this  deaf  and  dumb  trick.  What's  go- 
ing on  in  that  head  of  yours?  What  are  you  plotting 
against  me  there  so  hard  that  you  can't  say  a  v,ord? 
You  will  never  make  me  believe  that  you — you — don't 
know  where  to  lay  your  hands  on  a  couple  of  hundred. 
You  have  made  me  curse  the  day  I  was  born.    .    .    ." 

"  Mr.  Massy,"  said  Captain  Whalley  suddenly,  with- 
out stirring. 

The  engineer  started  violently. 

"  If  that  is  so  I  can  only  beg  you  to  forgive  me." 

"  Starboard,"  muttered  the  Serang  to  the  helmsman ; 
and  the  Sofala  began  to  swing  round  the  bend  into  the 
second  reach. 

"  Ough !  "  Massy  shuddered.     "  You  make  my  blood 
[  262  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

run  cold.  \^Tiat  made  you  come  here?  What  made  3^cu 
come  aboard  that  evening  all  of  a  sudden,  with  your 
high  talk  and  your  money — tempting  me?  I  always 
wondered  what  was  your  motive  ?  You  fastened  yourself 
J  on  me  to  have  easy  times  and  grow  fat  on  my  life  blood, 
I  tell  you.  Was  that  it?  I  believe  you  are  the  greatest 
miser  in  the  world,  or  else  why    .    .    ." 

"  No.  I  am  only  poor,"  interrupted  Captain  Whalley, 
stonily. 

"  Steady,"  murmured  the  Serang.  Massy  turned  away 
with  his  chin  on  his  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  he  said  in  his  dogmatic  tone. 
Captain  Whalley  made  no  movement.  "  There  you  sit 
like  a  gorged  vulture — exactly  like  a  vulture." 

He  embraced  the  middle  of  the  reach  and  both  the 
banks  in  one  blank  unseeing  circular  glance,  and  left  the 
bridge  slowly. 


IX 

On  turning  to  descend  Massy  perceived  the  head  of 
Sterne  the  mate  loitering,  with  his  sly  confident  smile, 
his  red  mustaches  and  blinking  eyes,  at  the  foot  of  the 
ladder. 

Sterne  had  been  a  junior  in  one  of  the  larger  shipping 
concerns  before  joining  the  Sofala.  He  had  thrown  up 
his  berth,  he  said,  "  on  general  principles."  The  pro- 
motion in  the  employ  was  very  slow,  he  complained,  and 
he  thought  it  was  time  for  him  to  try  and  get  on  a  bit 
[  263  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

in  the  world.  It  seemed  as  though  nobody  would  ever 
die  or  leave  the  firm ;  they  all  stuck  fast  in  their  berths 
till  they  got  mildewed;  he  was  tired  of  waiting;  and  lie 
feared  that  when  a  vacancy  did  occur  the  best  scrvrints 
were  by  no  means  sure  of  being  treated  fairly.  Besides, 
the  captain  he  had  to  serve  under — Captain  Provost — 
was  an  unaccountable  sort  of  man  and  had  taken  a 
dislike  to  him  for  some  reason  or  other.  For  doing 
rather  more  than  his  bare  duty  as  likely  as  not. 
When  he  had  done  anything  wi'ong  he  could  take  a 
talking  to,  like  a  man ;  but  he  expected  to  be  treated 
like  a  man  too,  and  not  to  be  addressed  invariably  as 
though  he  were  a  dog.  He  had  asked  Captain  Provost 
plump  and  plain  to  tell  him  where  he  was  at  fault,  and 
Captain  Provost,  in  a  most  scornful  way,  had  told  him 
that  he  was  a  perfect  officer,  and  that  if  he  disliked  the 
way  he  was  being  spoken  to  there  was  the  gangway — 
he  could  take  himself  off  ashore  at  once.  But  everybody 
knew  what  sort  of  man  Captain  Provost  was.  It  was  no 
use  appealing  to  the  office.  Captain  Provost  had  too 
much  influence  in  the  emplo} .  All  the  same,  they  had 
to  give  him  a  good  character.  He  made  bold  to  say 
there  was  nothing  in  the  world  against  him,  and,  as  he 
had  happened  to  hear  that  the  mate  of  the  Sofala  had 
been  taken  to  the  hospital  that  morning  with  a  sun- 
stroke, he  thought  there  would  be  no  harm  in  seeing 
whether  he  would  not  do.    .    .    . 

He  had  come  to  Captain  Whalley  freshly  shaved,  red- 
faced,  thin-flanked,  throwing  out   his   lean  chest ;    and 
bad  recited  his  little  tale  with  an  open  and  manly  as- 
[  ^64  1 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER 

surance.  Now  and  then  his  eyelids  quivered  slightly, 
his  hand  would  steal  up  to  the  end  of  the  flaming- 
mustache;  his  eyebrows  were  straight,  furry,  of  a  chest- 
nut color,  and  the  directness  of  his  gaze  seemed  to 
tremble  on  the  verge  of  impudence.  Captain  Whalley 
had  engaged  iiim  temporarily ;  then,  the  other  man  hav- 
ing been  ordered  home  by  the  doctors,  he  had  remained 
for  the  next  trip,  and  then  the  next.  He  had  now  at- 
tained permanency,  and  the  performance  of  his  duties 
was  marked  by  an  air  of  serious,  single-minded  appli- 
cation. Directly  he  was  spoken  to,  he  began  to  smile 
-attentively,  with  a  great  deference  expressed  in  liis 
whole  attitude;  but  there  was  in  the  rapid  winking 
which  went  on  all  the  time  something  quizzical,  as 
though  he  had  possessed  the  secret  of  some  universal 
joke  cheating  all  creation  and  impenetrable  to  other 
mortals. 

Grave  and  smiling  he  watched  Massy  come  down  step 
by  step;  when  the  chief  engineer  had  reached  the  deck 
he  swung  about,  and  they  found  themselves  face  to  face. 
Matched  as  to  height  and  utterly  dissimilar,  they  con- 
fronted each  other  as  if  there  had  been  something  be- 
tween them — something  else  than  the  bright  strip  of 
sunlight  that,  falling  through  the  wide  lacing  of  two 
awnings,  cut  crosswise  the  narrow  planking  of  the  deck 
and  separated  their  feet  as  it  were  a  stream;  something 
profound  and  subtle  and  incalculable,  like  an  unex- 
pressed understanding,  a  secret  mistrust,  or  some  sort 
•of  fear. 

At  last  Sterne,  blinking  his  deep-set  eyes  and  sticking 
[  265  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

forward  his  scraped,  clean-cut  chin,  as  crimson  as  the 
rest  of  his  face,  murmured — 

"You've  seen?     He  grazed!     You've  seen?" 

Massy,  contemptuous,  and  without  raising  liis  yellow, 
fleshy  countenance,  replied  in  the  same  pitch — 

"  Maybe.  But  if  it  had  been  you  we  would  have  been 
stuck  fast  in  the  mud." 

"  Pardon  me,  Mr.  Massy.  I  beg  to  deny  it.  Of  course 
a  shipowner  may  say  what  he  jolly  well  pleases  on  his 
own  deck.     That's  all  right ;  but  I  beg  to   .   .    ." 

"  Get  out  of  my  way !  " 

The  other  had  a  slight  start,  the  impulse  of  suppressed 
indignation  perhaps,  but  held  his  ground.  Massy's 
downward  glance  wandered  right  and  left,  as  though  the 
deck  all  round  Sterne  had  been  bestrewn  with  eggs  that 
must  not  be  broken,  and  he  had  looked  irritably  for 
places  where  he  could  set  his  feet  in  flight.  In  the  end 
he  too  did  not  move,  though  there  was  plenty  of  room 
to  pass  on. 

"  I  heard  you  say  up  there,"  went  on  the  mate — "  and 
a  very  just  remark  it  was  too — that  there's  always 
something  wrong.    .    .    ." 

"  Eavesdropping  is  what's  wrong  with  you,  IMr. 
Sterne." 

"  Now,  if  you  would  only  listen  to  me  for  a  moment^ 
Mr.  Massy,  sir,  I  could    .    .    ." 

"  You  are  a  sneak,"  interrupted  Massy  in  a  great 
hurry,  and  even  managed  to  get  so  far  as  to  repeat,  "  a 
common  sneak,"  before  the  mate  had  broken  in  argU" 
mentatively — 

[  mQ  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Now,  sir,  what  is  it  you  want?    You  want    .    .    ." 

"  I  want — I  want,"  stammered  Massy,  infuriated  and 
astonished — "  I  want.  How  do  you  know  that  I  want 
anything?  How  dare  you?  .  .  .  What  do  you 
mean?    .    .    .    What  are  you  after — you    .    .    ." 

"Promotion.'*  Sterne  silenced  him  with  candid  brav- 
ado. The  engineer's  round  soft  cheeks  quivered  still, 
but  he  said  quietly  enough — 

"  You  are  only  worrying  my  head  off,"  and  Sterne 
met  him  with  a  confident  little  smile. 

"  A  chap  in  business  I  know  ( well  up  in  the  world 
he  is  now)  used  to  tell  me  that  this  was  the  proper  way. 
'  Always  push  on  to  the  front,'  he  would  say.  '  Keep 
yourself  well  before  your  boss.  Interfere  whenever  you 
get  a  chance.  Show  him  what  you  know.  Worry  him 
into  seeing  you.'  That  was  his  advice.  Now  I  know 
no  other  boss  than  you  here.  You  are  the  owner,  anc? 
no  one  else  counts  for  that  much  in  my  eyes.  See,  Mr. 
Massy?  I  want  to  get  on.  I  make  no  secret  of  it  that 
I  am  one  of  the  sort  that  means  to  get  on.  These  are 
the  men  to  make  use  of,  sir.  You  haven't  arrived  at 
the  top  of  the  tree,  sir,  without  finding  that  out — I 
dare  say." 

"Worry  your  boss  in  order  to  get  on,"  repeated 
Massy,  as  if  awestruck  by  the  irreverent  originality  of 
the  idea.  **  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  this  was  just  what  the 
Blue  Anchor  people  kicked  you  out  of  their  employ  for. 
Is  that  what  you  call  getting  on?  You  shall  get  on  in 
the  same  way  here  if  you  aren't  careful—I  can  promise 
you." 

[267  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

At  this  Sterne  hung  his  head,  thoughtful,  perplexed, 
winking  hard  at  the  deck.  All  his  attempts  to  enter  into 
confidential  relations  with  his  owner  had  led  of  late 
to  nothing  better  than  these  dark  threats  of  dismissal; 
and  a  threat  of  dismissal  would  check  him  at  once  into 
a  hesitating  silence  as  though  he  were  not  sure  that 
the  proper  time  for  defying  it  had  come.  On  this  occa- 
sion he  seemed  to  have  lost  his  tongue  for  a  moment,  and 
Massy,  getting  in  motion,  heavily  passed  him  by  with 
an  abortive  attempt  at  shouldering.  Sterne  defeated  it 
bj  stepping  aside.  He  turned  then  swiftly,  opening 
liis  mouth  very  wide  as  if  to  shout  something  after  the 
engineer,  but  seemed  to  think  better  of  it. 

Always — as  he  was  ready  to  confess — on  the  lookout 
for  an  opening  to  get  on,  it  had  become  an  instinct  with 
him  to  watch  the  conduct  of  his  immediate  superiors  for 
something  "  that  one  could  lay  hold  of."  It  was  liis 
belief  that  no  skipper  in  the  world  would  keep  his  com- 
mand for  a  day  if  only  the  owners  could  be  "  made  to 
know%"  This  romantic  and  naive  theory  Iiad  led  him 
into  trouble  more  than  once,  but  he  remained  incorrigi- 
ble; and  his  character  was  so  instinctively  disloyal  that 
whenever  he  joined  a  ship  the  intention  of  ousting  his 
commander  out  of  the  berth  and  taking  his  place  was 
always  present  at  the  back  of  his  head,  as  a  matter  of 
course.  It  filled  the  leisure  of  his  waking  hours  with 
the  reveries  of  careful  plans  and  compromising  discov- 
eries— the  dreams  of  his  sleep  with  images  of  lucky 
tarns  and  favorable  accidents.  Skippers  had  been 
known  to  sicken  and   die  at  sea,  than  which   nothing. 

r  268  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

could  be  better  to  give  a  smart  mate  a  chance  of  showing 
what  he's  made  of.  The),  also  would  tumble  overboard 
sometimes:  he  had  heard  of  one  or  two  such  cases. 
Others  again  .  .  .  But,  as  it  were  constitutionall3^  he 
was  faithful  to  the  belief  that  the  conduct  of  no  single 
one  of  them  would  stand  the  test  of  careful  watching 
by  a  man  who  "  knew  what's  what  "  and  who  kept  his 
eyes  "  skinned  pretty  well "  all  the  time. 

After  he  had  gained  a  permanent  footing  on  board 
the  Sofala  he  allowed  his  perennial  hope  to  rise  high. 
To  begin  with,  it  was  a  great  advantage  to  have  an  old 
man  for  captain:  the  sort  of  man  besides  who  in  the 
nature  of  things  was  likely  to  give  up  the  job  beforc 
long  from  one  cause  or  another.  Sterne  was  greatly 
chagrined,  however,  to  notice  that  he  did  not  seem  any- 
way near  being  past  his  work  yet.  Still,  these  old  men 
go  to  pieces  all  at  once  sometimes.  Then  there  was  the 
owner-engineer  close  at  hand  to  be  impressed  by  his  zeal 
and  steadiness.  Sterne  never  for  a  moment  doubted  the 
obvious  nature  of  his  own  merits  (he  was  really  an  ex- 
cellent officer)  ;  only,  nowadays,  professional  merit  alone 
does  not  take  a  man  along  fast  enough.  A  chap  must 
have  some  push  in  him,  and  must  keep  his  wits  at  work 
too  to  help  him  forward.  He  made  up  his  mind  to 
inherit  the  charge  of  this  steamer  if  it  was  to  be  done 
at  all;  not  indeed  estimating  the  command  of  the 
Sofala  as  a  very  great  catch,  but  for  the  reason  that, 
out  East  especially,  to  make  a  start  is  everything,  and 
one  command  leads  to  another. 

He  began  by  promising  himself  to  behave  with  great 

[  ^69  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

circumspection ;  Massy's  somber  and  fantastic  humors 
intimidated  him  as  being  outside  one's  usua,!  sea  experi- 
ence; but  he  was  quite  intelligent  enough  to  realize  al- 
most from  the  first  that  he  was  there  in  the  presence  of 
an  exceptional  situation.  His  peculiar  prjang  imagina- 
tion penetrated  it  quickly ;  the  feeling  that  there  was 
in  it  an  element  which  eluded  his  grasp  exasperated  liis 
impatience  to  get  on.  And  so  one  trip  came  to  an  end, 
then  another,  and  he  had  begun  his  third  before  he  saw 
an  opening  by  which  he  could  step  in  with  an}^  sort  of 
effect.  It  had  all  been  very  queer  and  very  obscure; 
something  had  been  going  on  near  him,  as  if  separated 
by  a  chasm  from  the  common  life  and  the  working 
routine  of  the  ship,  which  was  exactly  like  the  life  and 
the  routine  of  any  other  coasting  steamer  of  that  class. 

Then  one  day  he  made  his  discovery. 

It  came  to  him  after  all  these  weeks  of  watchful  ob- 
servation and  puzzled  surmises,  suddenly,  like  the  long- 
sought  solution  of  a  riddle  that  suggests  itself  to  the 
mind  in  a  flash.  Not  with  the  same  authont}^,  however. 
Great  heavens !  Could  it  be  that  ?  And  after  remain- 
ing thunderstruck  for  a  few  seconds  he  tried  to  shake 
it  off  with  self-contumely,  as  though  it  had  been  the 
product  of  an  unhealthy  bias  towards  the  Incredible, 
the  Inexplicable,  the  Unheard-of — the  Mad! 

This — the  illuminating  moment — had  occurred  the  trip 
before,  on  the  return  passage.  They  had  just  left  a 
place  of  call  on  the  mainland  called  Pangu;  they  were 
steaming  straight  out  of  a  bay.  To  the  east  a  massive 
headland  closed  the  view,  with  the  tilted  edges  of  the 
[  270  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

rocky  strata  showing  through  its  ragged  clothing  of 
rank  bushes  and  thorny  creepers.  The  wind  had  begun 
to  sing  in  the  rigging;  the  sea  along  the  coast,  green 
and  as  if  swollen  a  little  above  the  line  of  the  horizon, 
seemed  to  pour  itself  over,  time  after  time,  with  a  slow 
and  thundering  fall,  into  the  shadow  of  the  leeward 
cape;  and  across  the  v,dde  opening  the  nearest  of  a 
group  of  small  islands  stood  enveloped  in  the  hazy 
yellow  light  of  a  breezy  sunrise;  still  farther  out  the 
hummocky  tops  of  other  islets  peeped  out  motionless 
above  the  water  of  the  channels  between,  scoured 
tumultuously  by  the  breeze. 

The  usual  track  of  the  Sofala  both  going  and  return- 
ing on  every  trip  led  her  for  a  few  miles  along  this  reef- 
infested  region.  She  followed  a  broad  lane  of  water, 
dropping  astern,  one  after  another,  these  crumbs  of  the 
earth's  crust  resembling  a  squadron  of  dismasted  hulks 
run  in  disorder  upon  a  foul  ground  of  rocks  and  shoals. 
Some  of  these  fragments  of  land  appeared,  indeed,  no 
bigger  than  a  stranded  ship;  others,  quite  flat,  lay 
awash  like  anchored  rafts,  like  ponderous,  black  rafts 
of  stone;  several,  heavily  timbered  and  round  at  the 
base,  emerged  in  squat  domes  of  deep  green  foliage  that 
shuddered  darkly  all  over  to  the  flying  touch  of  cloud 
shadows  driven  by  the  sudden  gusts  of  the  squally  sea- 
son. The  thunderstorms  of  the  coast  broke  frequently 
over  that  cluster;  it  turned  then  shadov/y  in  its  whole 
extent;  it  turned  more  dark,  and  as  if  more  still  in  the 
play  of  fire ;  as  if  more  impenetrably  silent  in  the  peals 
of  thunder;  its  blurred  shapes  vanished — dissolving  ut- 
[  271   ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

terl;y  at  times  in  the  thick  rain — to  reappear  clear-cut 
nnd  black  in  the  stormy  light  against  the  gray  sheet  of 
the  cloud — scattered  on  the  slaty  round  table  of 
the  sea.  Unscathed  by  storms,  resisting  the  work  of 
3^cars,  unfretted  by  the  strife  of  the  world,  there  it  Iblj 
unchanged  as  on  that  day,  four  hundred  years  ago, 
when  first  beheld  by  Western  eyes  from  the  deck  of 
a  high-pooped  caravel. 

It  was  one  of  these  secluded  spots  that  may  be  found 
on  the  busy  sea,  as  on  land  you  come  sometimes  upon  the 
clustered  houses  of  a  hamlet  untouched  by  men's  rest- 
lessness, untouched  by  their  need,  by  their  thought,  and 
as  if  forgotten  by  time  itself.  The  lives  of  uncounted 
generations  had  passed  it  by,  and  the  multitudes  of  sea- 
fowl,  urging  their  way  from  all  the  points  of  the  horizon 
to  sleep  on  the  outer  rocks  of  the  group,  unrolled  the 
converging  evolutions  of  their  flight  in  long  somber 
streamers  upon  the  glow  of  the  sky.  The  palpitating 
cloud  of  their  wings  soared  and  stooped  over  the  pinna- 
cles of  the  rocks,  over  the  rocks  slender  like  spires,  squat 
like  martello  towers ;  over  the  pyramidal  heaps  like  fallen 
ruins,  over  the  lines  of  bald  bowlders  showing  like  a  wall 
of  stones  battered  to  pieces  and  scorched  by  lightning — 
with  the  sleepy,  clear  glimmer  of  water  in  every  breach. 
The  noise  of  their  continuous  and  violent  screaming" 
filled  the  air. 

This  great  noise  would  meet  the  Sofala  coming  up  from 
Batu  Beru;  it  would  meet  her  on  quiet  evenings,  a  piti- 
less and  savage  clamor  enfeebled  by  distance,  the 
clamor  of  seabirds  settling  to  rest,  and  struggling  for 
[  272  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE    TETHER 

a  footing  at  the  end  of  the  da}'.  No  one  noticed  it 
especiall}^  on  board;  it  was  the  voice  of  their  ship's  un- 
erring landfall,  ending  the  steady-  stretch  of  a  hundred 
miles.  She  had  made  good  her  course,  she  had  run  htr 
distance  till  the  punctual  islets  began  to  emerge  one  by 
one,  the  points  of  rocks,  the  hummocks  of  earth  .  .  . 
and  the  cloud  of  birds  hovered — the  restless  cloud  emit- 
ting a  strident  and  cruel  uproar,  the  sound  of  the  fa- 
miliar scene,  the  living  part  of  the  broken  land  beneath, 
of  the  outspread  sea,  and  of  the  high  sky  vithout  a 
flaw. 

But  when  the  Sofala  happened  to  close  with  the  land 
after  sunset  she  would  find  everything  very  still  there 
under  the  mantle  of  the  night.  All  would  be  still,  dumb, 
almost  invisible — but  for  the  blotting  out  of  the  lovs- 
constellations  occulted  in  turns  behind  the  vague  masses 
of  the  islets  whose  true  outlines  eluded  the  eye  amongst 
the  dark  spaces  of  the  heaven :  and  the  ship's  three  lights, 
resembling  three  stars — the  red  and  the  green  with  the 
white  above — her  three  lights,  like  three  companion 
stars  wandering  on  the  earth,  held  their  unswerving 
course  for  the  passage  at  the  southern  end  of  the  group. 
Sometimes  there  vrere  human  e3'es  open  to  watch  them 
come  nearer,  traveling  smoothly  in  the  somber  void;  tlie 
eyes  of  a  naked  fisherman  in  his  canoe  floating  over  a 
reef.  He  thought  drowsil}^ :  "  Ha !  The  fire-ship  that 
once  in  every  moon  goes  in  and  comes  out  of  Pangu 
Bay."  More  he  did  not  know  of  her.  And  just  as  he 
'  had  detected  the  faint  rhythm  of  the  propeller  beating 
the  calm  water  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  the  time  would 
r  273   1 


\ 
\ 

THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

come  for  the  Sofala  to  alter  her  course,  the  lights  would 
swing  off  him  their  triple  beam — and  disappear. 

A  few  miserable,  half -naked  families,  a  sort  of  outcast 
tribe  of  long-haired,  lean,  and  wild-e3^ed  people,  strove 
for  their  living  in  this  lonely  wilderness  of  islets,  lying 
like  an  abandoned  outwork  of  the  land  at  the  gates  of 
the  bay.  Within  the  knots  and  loops  of  the  rocks  the 
water  rested  more  transparent  than  crystal  under  their 
crooked  and  leaky  canoes,  scooped  out  of  the  trunk  of 
a  tree:  the  forms  of  the  bottom  undulated  slightly  to 
the  dip  of  a  paddle ;  and  the  men  seemed  to  hang  in  the 
air,  they  seemed  to  hang  inclosed  within  the  fibers  of  a 
dark,  sodden  log,  fishing  patiently  in  a  strange,  un- 
steady, pellucid,  green  air  above  the  shoals. 

Their  bodies  stalked  brown  and  emaciated  as  if  dried 
up  in  the  sunshine;  their  lives  ran  out  silently;  the 
homes  where  they  were  born,  went  to  rest,  and  died — 
flimsy  sheds  of  rushes  and  coarse  grass  eked  out  with 
a  few  ragged  mats — were  hidden  out  of  sight  from  tlie 
open  sea.  No  glow  of  their  household  fires  ever  kindled 
for  a  seaman  a  red  spark  upon  the  blind  night  of  the 
group:  and  the  calms  of  the  coast,  the  flaming  long 
calms  of  the  equator,  the  unbreathing,  concentrated 
calms  like  the  deep  introspection  of  a  passionate  nature, 
brooded  awfully  for  days  and  weeks  together  over  the 
unchangeable  inheritance  of  their  children;  till  at  last 
the  stones,  hot  like  live  embers,  scorched  the  naked  sole, 
till  the  water  clung  warm,  and  sickly,  and  as  if  thick- 
ened, P.bout  the  legs  of  lean  men  with  girded  loins,  wad- 
ing thigh-deep  in  the  pale  blaze  of  the  shallows.  And 
[  274  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

it  would  happen  now  and  then  that  the  Sofcila,  through 
some  delay  in  one  of  the  ports  of  call,  would  heave  in 
sight  making  for  Pangu  Bay  as  late  as  noonday. 

Only  a  blurring  cloud  at  first,  the  thin  mist  of  her 
smoke  would  arise  mysteriously  from  an  empty  point  on 
the  clear  line  of  sea  and  sky.  The  taciturn  fishermen 
within  the  reefs  would  extend  their  lean  arms  towards 
the  offing;  and  the  brown  figures  stooping  on  the  tiny 
beaches,  the  brov.n  figures  of  men,  women,  and  children 
grubbing  in  the  sand  in  search  of  turtles'  eggs,  would 
rise  up,  crooked  elbow  aloft  and  hand  over  the  eyes,  to 
watch  this  monthly  apparition  glide  straight  on,  swerve 
off — and  go  by.  Their  ears  caught  the  panting  of  that 
ship ;  their  eyes  followed  her  till  she  passed  between  the 
two  capes  of  the  mainland  going  at  full  speed  as  though 
she  hoped  to  make  her  way  unchecked  into  the  very 
bosom  of  the  earth. 

On  such  days  the  luminous  sea  would  give  no  sign  of 
the  dangers  lurking  on  both  sides  of  her  path.  Every- 
thing remained  still,  crushed  by  the  overwhelming  power 
of  the  light;  and  the  whole  group,  opaque  in  the  sun- 
shine,— ^the  rocks  resembling  pinnacles,  the  rocks  resem- 
bling spires,  the  rocks  resembling  ruins;  the  forms  of 
islets  resembling  beehives,  resembling  mole-hills,  the 
islets  recalling  the  shapes  of  haystacks,  the  contours  of 
ivv-clad  towers, — would  stand  refiected  together  upside 
down  in  the  unwrinkled  water,  like  carved  toys  of  ebony 
disposed  on  the  silvered  plate-glass  of  a  mirror. 

The  first  touch  of  blowing  weather  would  envelop  the 
whole  at  once  in  the  spume  of  the  windward  breakers, 

[  ri5  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

as  if  in  a  sudden  cloudlike  burst  of  steam :  and  the  clear 
water  seemed  fairlj'  to  boil  in  all  the  passages.  The 
provoked  sea  outlined  exactly-  in  a  design  of  angry  foam 
the  wide  base  of  the  group;  the  submerged  level  of 
broken  waste  and  refuse  left  over  from  the  building  of 
tlie  coast  near  by?  projecting  its  dangerous  spurs,  all 
awash,  far  into  the  channel,  and  bristling  with  wicked 
long  spits  often  a  mile  long:  with  deadly  spits  made  of 
froth  and  stones. 

And  even  nothing  more  than  a  brisk  breeze — as  on 
that  morning,  the  vo^^age  before,  v/hcn  the  Sofala  left 
Pangu  Bay  early,  and  Mr.  Sterne's  discovery  was  to 
blossom  out  like  a  flower  of  incredible  and  evil  aspect 
from  the  tiny  seed  of  instinctive  suspicion, — even  such 
a  breeze  had  enough  strength  to  tear  the  placid  mask 
from  the  face  of  the  sea.  To  Sterne,  gazing  with  indif- 
ference, it  had  been  like  a  revelation  to  behold  for  the 
first  time  the  dangers  marked  by  the  hissing  \i\\d. 
patches  on  the  water  as  distinctly  as  on  the  engraved 
paper  of  a  chart.  It  came  into  his  mind  that  this  vras 
the  sort  of  day  most  favorable  for  a  stranger  attempt- 
ing the  passage:  a  clear  day,  just  windy  enough  for 
the  sea  to  break  on  every  ledge,  buoying,  as  it  were, 
the  channel  plainly  to  the  sight ;  whereas  during  a  calm 
you  had  nothing  to  depend  on  but  the  compass  and  the 
practiced  judgment  of  your  eye.  And  yet  the  suc- 
cessive captains  of  the  Sofala  had  had  to  take  her 
through  at  night  more  than  once.  Nowadays  you  could 
not  aiFord  to  throw  away  six  or  seven  hours  of  a 
steamer's  time.     That  you  couldn't.     But  then  use  is 

[276  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

ivcrything,  and  with  proper  care  .  .  .  The  channel 
vas  broad  and  safe  enough;  the  main  point  was  to  hit 
ipon  the  entrance  correctly  in  the  dark — for  if  a  man 
^ot  himself  involved  in  thc.t  stretch  of  broken  water 
Dver  yonder  he  would  never  get  out  with  a  whole  ship — 
f  he  ever  got  out  at  all. 

This  was  Sterne's  last  train  of  thought  independent 
of  the  great  discovery.  He  had  just  seen  to  the  secur^ 
ing  of  the  anchor,  and  had  remained  forward  idling 
away  a  moment  or  two.  The  captain  was  in  charge  on 
the  bridge.  With  a  slight  3^av,n  he  had  turned  awaj 
from  his  survey  of  the  sea  and  had  leaned  his  shoulders 
against  the  fish  davit. 

These,  properly  speaking,  were  the  very  last  moments 
of  ease  he  was  to  know  on  board  the  Sofala.  All  the 
instants  that  came  after  were  to  be  pregnant  with  pur- 
pose and  intolerable  with  perplexity.  No  more  idle, 
irandom  thoughts ;  the  discovery  would  put  them  on  the 
rack,  till  sometimes  he  wished  to  goodness  he  had  been 
fool  enough  not  to  make  it  at  all.  And  yet,  if  his 
chance  to  get  on  rested  on  the  discovery  of  "  something 
v/rong,"  he  could  not  have  hoped  for  a  greater  stroke 
of  luck. 

X 

The  knowledge  was  too  disturbing,  really.  There  was 
"  something  wrong  "  with  a  vengeance,  and  the  moral 
certitude  of  it  was  at  first  simply  frightful  to  contem- 
plate. Sterne  had  been  looking  aft  in  a  mood  so  idle, 
that  for  once  he  was  thinking  no  harm  of  anyone.  His 
[  277  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

captain  on  the  bridge  presented  himself  naturally  to 
his  sight.  How  insignificant,  how  casual  was  the 
thought  that  had  started  the  train  of  discovery — like  an 
accidental  spark  that  suffices  to  ignite  the  charge  of  a 
tremendous  mine ! 

Caught  under  by  the  breeze,  the  awnings  of  the  fore- 
deck  bellied  upwards  and  collapsed  slowly,  and  above 
their  heavy  flapping  the  gray  stuff  of  Captain  Whallej^'s 
roomy  coat  fluttered  incessantly  around  his  arms  and 
trunk.  He  faced  the  wind  in  full  light,  with  L^s  great 
silvery  beard  blown  forcibly  against  his  chest;  the  eye- 
brows overhung  heavily  the  shadows  whence  his  glance 
appeared  to  be  staring  ahead  piercingly.  Sterne  could 
just  detect  the  twin  gleam  of  the  whites  shifting  under 
the  shaggy  arches  of  the  brow.  At  short  range  these 
eyes,  for  all  the  man's  affable  manner,  seemed  to  look 
you  through  and  through.  Sterne  never  could  defend 
himself  from  that  feeling  when  he  had  occasion  to  speak 
v^'ith  his  captain.  He  did  not  like  it.  What  a  big 
heavy  man  he  appeared  up  there,  with  that  little 
shrimp  of  a  Serang  in  close  attendance — as  was  usual 
in  this  extraordinary  steamer!  Confounded  absurd  cus- 
tom that.  He  resented  it.  Surely  the  old  fellow  could 
have  looked  after  his  ship  without  that  loafing  native 
at  his  elbow.  Sterne  wriggled  his  shoulders  with  dis- 
gust.    What  was  it.^^     Indolence  or  what.'' 

That  old   skipper  must   have   been   growing  lazy   for 

years.     They  all  grew  lazy  out  East  here  (Sterne  was 

very   conscious   of  his  own  unimpaired  activity)  ;   they 

got  slack  all  over.     But  he  towered  very  erect  on  the 

[278] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

bridge ;  and  quite  low  by  his  side,  as  you  see  a  small 
child  looking  over  the  edge  of  a  table,  the  battered  soft 
hat  and  the  brown  face  of  the  Serang  peeped  over  the 
white  canvas  screen  of  the  rail. 

No  doubt  the  Malay  was  standing  back,  nearer  to  the 
r;heel;  but  the  great  disparity  of  size  in  close  associa- 
tion amused  Sterne  like  the  observation  of  a  bizarre  fact 
in  nature.  There  were  as  queer  fish  out  of  the  sea  as 
any  in  it. 

He  saw  Captain  Whalley  turn  his  head  quickly  to 
sspeak  to  his  Serang;  the  wind  whipped  the  v/hole  white 
mass  of  the  beard  sideways.  He  would  be  directing  the 
chap  to  look  at  the  compass  for  him,  or  what  not.  Of 
course.  Too  much  trouble  to  step  over  and  see  for  him- 
self. Sterne'c  scorn  for  that  bodily  indolence  which 
overtakes  white  men  in  the  East  increased  on  reflection. 
Some  of  them  would  be  utterly  lost  if  'they  hadn't  all 
these  natives  at  their  beck  and  call ;  they  grew  perfectly 
shameless  about  it  too.  He  was  not  of  that  sort,  thank 
God  !  It  wasn't  in  him  to  make  himself  dependent  for 
his  work  on  any  shrivel ed-up  little  Malay  like  that.  As 
if  one  could  ever  trust  a  silly  native  for  anything  In 
the  world !  But  that  fine  old  man  thought  differently, 
it  seems.  There  they  were  together,  never  far  apart; 
I  a  pair  of  them,  recalling  to  the  mind  an  old  whale  at- 
tended by  a  little  pilot-fish. 

The  fancifulness  of  the  comparison  made  him  smile. 
A  whale  with  an  inseparable  pilot-fish!  Th.*>t's  what 
the  old  man  Iroked  like:  for  it  could  not  be  ^aid  he 
looked  like  a  shark,  thounrh  Mr.  Massy  had  called  him 


THE   END   01'   TKE   TETHER 

that  very  name.  But  Mr.  Massy  did  not  mind  what  he 
said  in  his  savage  fits.  Sterne  smiled  to  himself — ^and 
gradually  the  ideas  evoked  by  the  sound,  by  the  im- 
agined shape  of  the  v.ord  pilot-fish;  the  ideas  of  aid,  of 
guidance  needed  and  received,  came  uppermost  in  his 
mind:  the  word  pilot  avy'akened  the  idea  of  trust,  of 
dependence,  the  idea  of  welcome,  clear-eyed  help  brought 
to  the  seaman  groping  for  the  land  in  the  dark :  groping 
blindly  in  io;;s:  feeling  his  way  in  the  thick  weatlier 
of  the  gales  that,  filling  the  air  with  a  salt  mist  blovrn 
up  from  the  sea,  contract  the  range  of  sight  on  all 
sides  to  a  shrunken  horizon  that  seems  v.ithin  reach  of 
tlie  band. 

A  pilot  sees  better  than  a  stranger,  because  his  local 
knowledge,  like  a  sharper  vision,  comp^Jtes  the  shapes 
of  things  hurriedly  glimpsed;  penetrates  the  veils  of 
mist  spread  over  the  land  by  the  storms  of  the  sea;  de- 
fines with  certitude  the  outlines  of  a  coast  lying  under 
the  pall  fog,  the  forms  of  landmarks  half  buried  in  a 
starless  night  as  in  a  shallow  grave.  He  recognizes  be- 
cause he  already  knows.  It  is  not  to  his  far-reaching 
eye  but  to  his  more  extensive  knowledge  that  the  pilot 
looks  for  certitude ;  for  this  certitude  of  the  ship's  posi- 
tion on  which  may  depend  a  man's  good  fame  and  the 
peace  of  his  conscience,  the  justification  of  the  trust 
deposited  in  his  hands,  with  his  own  life  too,  which  is 
seldom  wholly  his  to  throw  away,  and  the  humble  lives 
of  others  rooted  in  distant  affections,  perhaps,  and  made 
as  weighty  as  the  lives  of  kings  by  the  burden  of  the 
awaiting  mystery.  The  pilot's  knowledge  brings  relief 
[   230  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

and  certitude  to  the  commander  of  a  ship;  the  Scrang, 
however,  in  his  fanciful  suggestion  of  a  pilct-ush  at- 
tending a  whale,  could  not  in  any  way  be  credited  with 
a  superior  knowledge.  Why  should  he  have  it?  These 
two  men  had  come  on  that  run  together — the  white  and 
the  brown — on  the  same  day :  and  of  course  a  white  man 
would  learn  more  in  a  week  than  the  best  native  would 
in  a  month.  He  was  made  to  stick  to  the  skipper  as 
!  though  he  were  of  some  use — as  the  pilot-fish,  they  say, 
lis  to  the  whale.  But  how — it  was  very  marked — how? 
A  pilot-fish — a  pilot — a  .  .  .  But  if  not  superior 
knowledge  then    .    .    . 

Sterne's  discovery  was  made.  It  was  repugnant  to  his 
imagination,  shocking  to  his  ideas  of  honesty,  shocking 
iJto  his  conception  of  mankind.  This  enormity  affected 
one's  outlook  on  what  was  possible  in  this  world:  it  was 
as  if  for  instance  the  sun  had  turned  blue,  throwing  a 
new  and  sinister  light  on  men  and  nature.  Really  in 
the  first  moment  he  had  felt  sickish,  as  though  he  had 
got  a  blow  below  the  belt:  for  a  second  the  very  color 
of  the  sea  seemed  changed — appeared  queer  to  his  wan- 
dering e3^e ;  and  he  had  a  passing,  unsteady  sensation  in 
all  his  limbs  as  though  the  earth  had  started  turning 
the  other  way. 

A  very  natural  incredulity  succeeding  this  sense  of 
upheaval  brought  a  measure  of  relief.  He  had  gasped; 
it  was  over.  But  afterwards  during  all  that  day  sudden 
paroxysms  of  wonder  would  come  over  him  in  the  midst 
of  his  occupations.  He  would  stop  and  shake  his  head. 
The  revolt  of  his  incredulity  had  passed  away  almost  a« 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

^uick  as  the  first  emotion  of  discovery,  and  for  the  nexti 
twentj^-four  hours  he  had  no  sleep.  That  would  never' 
do.  At  meal-times  (he  took  the  foot  of  the  table  sett 
up  for  the  white  men  on  the  bridge)  he  could  not  help 
losing  himself  in  a  fascinated  contemplation  of  Captain 
Whalley  opposite.  He  watched  the  deliberate  upward  I 
movements  of  the  arm;  the  old  man  put  his  food  to  his 
lips  as  though  he  never  expected  to  find  any  taste  in 
his  daily  bread,  as  though  he  did  not  know  anything 
about  it.  He  fed  himself  like  a  somnambulist.  "  It's  an 
awful  sight,"  thought  Sterne;  and  he  watched  the  long 
period  of  mournful,  silent  immobility,  with  a  big  brown 
.hand  lying  loosely  closed  by  the  side  of  the  plate,  till 
he  noticed  the  two  engineers  to  the  right  and  left  look- 
ing at  him  in  astonishment.  He  would  close  his  mouth 
in  a  hurry  then,  and  lowering  his  eyes,  wink  rapidly  at 
his  plate.  It  was  awful  to  see  the  old  chap  sitting 
there;  it  was  even  awful  to  think  that  with  three  words 
he  could  blow  him  up  sky-high.  All  he  had  to  do  was 
to  raise  his  voice  and  pronounce  a  single  short  sentence, 
and  yet  that  simple  act  seemed  as  impossible  to  attempt 
as  moving  the  sun  out  of  its  place  in  the  sk3\  The  old 
chap  could  eat  in  his  terrific  mechanical  way ;  but  Sterne, 
from  mental  excitement,  could  not — not  that  evening, 
at  any  rate. 

He  had  had  ample  time  since  to  get  accustomed  to  the 
strain  of  the  meal-hours.  He  would  never  have  believed 
it.  But  then  use  is  everything:  only  the  very  potency 
of  his  success  prevented  anything*  resembling  elation. 
He  felt  like  a  man  who,  in  his  legitimate  search  for  a 

[ 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

loaded  gun  to  help  him  on  his  way  through  the  -^Yorld, 
chances  to  come  upon  a  torpedo — upon  a  hve  torpedo 
with  a  shattering  charge  in  its  head  and  a  pressure  of 
many  atmospheres  in  its  taih  It  is  the  sort  of  weapon 
to  make  its  possessor  careworn  and  nervous.  He  had 
no  mind  to  be  blown  up  himself;  and  he  could  not  get 
rid  of  the  notion  that  the  explosion  was  bound  to  damage 
him  too  in  some  way. 

This  vague  apprehension  had  restrained  him  at  first. 
He  was  able  now  to  eat  and  sleep  with  that  fearful 
weapon  by  his  side^  with  the  conviction  of  its  power 
always  in  his  mind.  Ic  had  not  been  arrived  at  by  any 
reflective  process ;  but  once  the  idea  had  entered  his 
head,  the  conviction  had  followed  overwhelmingl}^  in  a 
multitude  of  observed  little  facts  to  which  before  he  had 
given  only  a  languid  attention.  The  abrupt  and  falter- 
ing intonations  of  the  deep  voice;  the  taciturnity  put 
on  like  an  armor;  the  deliberate,  as  if  guarded,  m.ove- 
ments;  the  long  immobilities,  as  if  the  man  he  watched 
had  been  afraid  to  disturb  the  very  air:  every  familiar 
gesture,  every  word  uttered  in  his  hearing,  every  sigh 
overheard,  had  acquired  a  special  significance,  a  con- 
firmatory im.port. 

Every  day  that  passed  over  the  Sofala  appeared  to 
Sterne  simply  crammed  full  with  proofs — ^with  incon- 
trovertible proofs.  At  night,  when  off  duty,  he  would 
steal  out  of  his  cabin  in  pyjamas  (for  more  proofs)  and 
stand  a  full  hour,  perhaps,  on  his  bare  feet  below  the 
bridge,  as  absolutely  motionless  as  the  awning  stanchion 
in  its  deck  socket  near  by.  On  th**  stretches  of  easy 
[  283  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHEK 

navigation  it  is  not  usual  for  a  coasting  captain  to  re- 
main on  deck  all  the  time  of  his  watch.  The  Serang 
keeps  it  for  him  as  a  matter  of  custom;  in  open  water, 
on  a  straight  course,  he  is  usualh^  trusted  to  look  after 
the  ship  by  himself.  But  this  old  man  seemed  incapable 
of  remaining  quietly  down  below.  No  doubt  he  could 
not  sleep.  And  no  wonder.  This  was  also  a  proof. 
Suddenly  in  the  silence  of  the  ship  panting  upon  the 
still,  dark  sea,  Sterne  would  hear  a  low  voice  above  him 
exclaiming  nervously — 

"  Serang !  " 

"  Tuan !  " 

"  You  are  watching  the  compass  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  watching,  Tuan." 

"  The  ship  is  making  her  course.?  " 

"  She  is,  Tuan.     Very  straight." 

"  It  is  well ;  and  remember,  Serang,  that  the  order 
is  that  you  are  to  mind  the  helmsmen  and  keep  a  look- 
out with  care,  the  same  as  if  I  vvere  not  on  deck." 

Then,  when  the  Serang  had  made  his  answer,  the  low 
tones  on  the  bridge  would  cease,  and  everything  round 
Sterne  seemed  to  become  more  still  and  more  profoundly 
silent.  Slightly  chilled  and  with  his  back  aching  a  little 
from  long  immobility,  he  would  steal  away  to  his  room 
on  the  port  side  of  the  deck.  He  had  long  since  parted 
with  the  last  vestige  of  incredulity;  of  the  original 
emotions,  set  into  a  tumult  b}^  the  discovery,  some  trace 
of  the  first  awe  alone  remained.  Not  the  awe  of  the 
man  himself — he  could  blow  him  up  sky-high  with  six 
words — rather  it  was  an  awestruck  indignation  at  the 
[  284  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

reckless  perversity  of  avarice  (what  else  could  it  be?), 
at  the  mad  and  somber  resolution  that  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  dollars  more  seemed  to  set  at  naught  the  common 
rule  of  conscience  and  pretended  to  struggle  against 
the  very  decree  of  Providence. 

You  could  not  find  another  man  like  this  one  in  the 
whole  round  world — thank  God.  There  was  something 
devilishly  dauntless  in  the  character  of  such  a  deception 
which  made  you  pause. 

Other  considerations  occurring  to  his  prudence  had 
kept  him  tongue-tied  from  day  to  day.  It  seemed  to 
him  now  that  it  would  yet  have  been  easier  to  speak  out 
in  the  first  hour  of  discover}-.  He  almost  regretted  not 
having  made  a  row  at  once.  But  then  the  very  mon- 
strosity of  the  disclosure  .  .  .  Why!  he  could  hardly 
face  it  himself,  let  alone  pointing  it  out  to  somebody 
else.  Moreover,  with  a  desperado  of  that  sort  one  never 
knew.  The  object  was  not  to  get  him  out  (that  was 
as  well  as  done  already),  but  to  step  into  his  place. 
Bizarre  as  the  thought  seemed  he  might  have  shown 
fight.  A  fellow  up  to  working  such  a  fraud  would  have 
enough  cheek  for  anything;  a  fellow  that,  as  it  were, 
stood  up  against  God  Almighty  Himself.  He  was  a 
horrid  marvel — that's  what  he  was:  he  was  perfectly 
capable  of  brazening  out  the  affair  scandalously  till  he 
got  him  (Sterne)  kicked  out  of  the  ship  and  everlast- 
ingl}'  damaged  his  prospects  in  this  part  of  the  East. 
Yet  if  you  want  to  get  on  something  must  be  risked.  At 
times  Sterne  thought  he  had  been  unduly  timid  of  taking 
action  in  the  past;  and  what  was  worse,  it  had  come  to 
[  285  1 


THE    END    OF   THE    TETHER 

this,  that  in  the  present  he  did  not  seem  to  know  'vvhat 
action  to  take. 

Massy's  savage  moroseness  was  too  disconcerting.  It 
was  an  incalculable  factor  of  the  situation.  You  could 
not  tell  what  there  was  behind  that  insulting  ferocity. 
How  could  one  trust  such  a  temper?  it  did  not  put 
Sterne  in  bodily  fear  for  himself,  but  it  frightened  him 
exceedingly  as  to  his  prospects. 

Though  of  course  inclined  to  credit  himself  with  ex- 
ceptional powers  of  observation,  he  had  by  now  lived 
too  long  with  his  discovery.  He  had  gone  on  looking 
at  nothing  else,  till  at  last  one  day  it  occurred  to  him 
that  thje  thing  was  so  obvious  that  no  one  could  miss 
seeing  it.  There  were  four  white  men  in  all  on  board 
the  Sofala.  Jack,  the  second  engineer,  was  too  dull  to 
notice  anything  that  took  place  out  of  his  engine-room. 
Remained  Massy — the  owner — the  interested  person — 
nearly  going  mad  with  worry.  Sterne  had  heard  and 
seen  more  than  enough  on  board  to  know  what  ailed  him ; 
but  his  exasperation  seemed  to  make  him  deaf  to  cau- 
tious overtures.  If  he  had  only  known  it,  there  was  tlie 
very  thing  he  wanted.  But  how  could  you  bargain  with 
a  man  of  that  sort.?  It  was  like  going  into  a  tiger's  den 
with  a  piece  of  raw  meat  in  your  hand.  He  was  as 
likely  as  not  to  rend  you  for  your  pains.  In  fact,  he 
was  always  threatening  to  do  that  very  thing;  and  tlie 
urgency  of  the  case,  combined  with  the  impossibility  of 
handling  it  with  safety,  made  Sterne  in  his  watches  below 
toss  and  mutter  open-eyed  in  his  bunk,  for  hours,  as 
though  he  had  been  burning  with  fever. 
[  286  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Occurrences  like  the  crossing  of  the  bar  just  now  were 
extremely  alarming  to  his  prospects.  He  did  not  want 
to  be  left  behind  by  some  swift  catastrophe.  Massy  be- 
ing on  the  bridge,  the  old  man  had  to  brace  himself  up 
and  make  a  show,  he  supposed.  But  it  was  getting  ver}^ 
bad  with  him,  very  bad  indeed,  now.  Even  Massy  had 
been  emboldened  to  find  fault  this  time;  Sterne,  listen- 
ing at  the  foot  of  the  ladder,  had  heard  the  other's 
whimpering  and  artless  denunciations.  Luckily  the 
beast  was  very  stupid  and  could  not  see  the  why  of  all 
this.  However,  small  blame  to  him ;  it  took  a  clever  man 
to  hit  upon  the  cause.  Nevertheless,  it  was  high  time  to 
do  something.  The  old  man's  game  could  not  be  kept 
up  for  many  days  more. 

"  I  may  yet  lose  my  life  at  this  fooling — let  alone  my 
chance,"  Sterne  mumbled  angrily  to  himself,  after  the 
stooping  back  of  the  chief  engineer  had  disappeared 
round  the  corner  of  the  skylight.  Yes,  no  doubt — he 
thought;  but  to  blurt  out  his  knowledge  would  not  ad- 
vance his  prospects.  On  the  contrary,  it  would  blast 
them  utterly  as  likely  as  not.  He  dreaded  another 
failure.  He  had  a  vague  consciousness  of  not  being 
much  liked  by  his  fellows  in  this  part  of  the  world ;  inex- 
plicably enough,  for  he  had  done  nothing  to  them. 
Envy,  he  supposed.  People  were  always  down  on  a 
clever  chap  who  made  no  bones  about  his  determination 
to  get  on.  To  do  your  duty  and  count  on  the  gratitude 
of  that  brute  Massy  would  be  sheer  folly.  He  was  a  bad 
lot.  Unmanly  !  A  vicious  man  !  Bad  !  Bad  !  A  brute  1 
'Jl  brute  without  a  spark  of  anything  human  about  him ; 
[  287  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

without  so  much  as  simple  curiosity  even,  or  else  surely 
he  would  have  responded  in  some  way  to  all  these  liints 
he  had  been  given.  .  .  .  Such  insensibility  was  almost 
mysterious.  Massy's  state  of  exasperation  seemed  to 
Sterne  to  have  made  him  stupid  beyond  the  ordinary 
silliness  of  shipowners. 

Sterne,  meditating  on  the  embarrassments  of  that  stu- 
pidity, forgot  himself  completel}^  His  stony,  unwink- 
ing stare  was  fixed  on  the  planks  of  the  deck. 

The  slight  quiver  agitating  the  whole  fabric  of  the 
ship  was  more  perceptible  in  the  silent  river,  shaded  and 
still  like  a  forest  path.  The  Sofala^  gliding  ^vith  an 
even  motion,  had  passed  beyond  the  coast-belt  of  mud 
and  mangroves.  The  shores  rose  higher,  in  firm  slop- 
ing banks,  and  the  forest  of  big  trees  came  down  to  the 
brink.  Where  the  earth  had  been  crumbled  by  the 
floods  it  showed  a  steep  brown  cut,  denuding  a  mass  of 
roots  intertwined  as  if  wrestling  underground;  and  in 
the  air,  the  interlaced  boughs,  bound  and  loaded  with 
creepers,  carried  on  the  struggle  for  life,  mingled  their 
foliage  in  one  solid  wall  of  leaves,  with  here  and  there 
the  shape  of  an  enormous  dark  pillar  soaring,  or  a 
ragged  opening,  as  if  torn  by  the  flight  of  a  cannon- 
ball,  disclosing  the  impenetrable  gloom  within,  iliC 
secular  inviolable  shade  of  the  virgin  forest.  Tiie 
thump  of  the  engines  reverberated  regularly  like  the 
strokes  of  a  metronome  beating  the  measure  of  the  vast 
silence,  the  shadow  of  the  western  wall  had  fallen  across 
the  river,  and  the  smoke  pouring  backwards  from  the 
funnel  eddied  down  behind  the  ship,  spread  a  thin 
[  288   1 


I" 


THE    END    OF   THE   TETHER 


dusky  veil  over  the  somber  water,  which,  checked  by 
the  flood-tide,  seemed  to  lie  stagnant  in  the  whole 
straight  length  of  the  reaches. 

Sterne  ^^  body,  as  if  rooted  on  the  spot,  trembled  slightly 
from  top  to  toe  with  the  internal  vibration  of  the  ship ; 
from  under  his  feet  came  sometimes  a  sudden  clang  of 
iron,  the  noisy  burst  of  a  shout  below;  to  the  right  the 
leaves  of  the  tree-tops  caught  the  rays  of  the  low  sun, 
and  seemed  to  shine  with  a  golden  green  light  of  their 
own  shimmering  around  the  highest  boughs  which  stood 
out  black  against  a  smooth  blue  sky  that  seemed  to 
droop  over  the  bed  of  the  river  like  the  roof  of  a  tent. 
The  passengers  for  Batu  Beru,  kneeling  on  the  planks, 
were  engaged  in  rolling  their  bedding  of  mats  busily ; 
they  tied  up  bundles,  they  snapped  the  locks  of  wooden 
chests.  A  pockmarked  peddler  of  small  wares  threw  his 
head  back  to  drain  into  his  throat  the  last  drops  out  of 
an  earthenware  bottle  before  putting  it  away  in  a  roll 
of  blankets.  Knots  of  traveling  traders  standing  about 
the  dc  ck  conversed  in  low  tones ;  the  followers  of  a  small 
Rajah  from  down  the  coast,  broad- faced,  simple  young 
fellows  in  white  drawers  and  round  white  cotton  caps 
with  their  colored  sarongs  twisted  across  their  bronze 
shoulders,  squatted  on  their  hams  on  the  hatch,  chewing 
betel  with  bright  red  mouths  as  if  they  had  been  tasting 
blood.  Their  spears,  lying  piled  up  together  within  the 
circle  of  their  bare  toes,  resembled  a  casual  bundle  of 
dry  bamboos;  a  thin,  livid  Chinaman,  with  a  bulky 
packar:!;e  wrapped  up  in  leaves  already  thrust  under  his 
arm,  gazed  ahead  eagerly;  a  wandering  Kling  rubbed 
[  289  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

his  teeth  with  a  bit  of  wood,  pouring  over  the  side  s 
bright  stream  of  water  out  of  his  lips;  the  fat  Rajah 
dozed  in  a  shabby  deck-chair, — and  at  the  turn  of  every 
bend  the  two  walls  of  leaves  reappeared  running 
parallel  along  the  banks,  with  their  impenetrable  solidity 
fading  at  the  top  to  a  vaporous  mistiness  of  countless 
slender  tv\'igs  growing  free,  of  young  delicate  branches 
shooting  from  the  topmost  limbs  of  hoary  trunks,  of 
feathery  heads  of  climbers  like  delicate  silver  sprays 
standing  up  without  a  quiver.  There  was  not  a  sign 
of  a  clearing  anywhere ;  not  a  trace  of  human  habita- 
tion, except  when  in  one  place,  on  the  bare  end  of  a  low 
point  under  an  isolated  group  of  slender  tree-ferns,  the 
jagged,  tangled  remnants  of  an  old  hut  on  piles  ap- 
peared with  that  peculiar  aspect  of  ruined  bamboo  walls 
that  look  as  if  smashed  with  a  club.  Farther  on,  half 
hidden  under  the  drooping  bushes,  a  canoe  containing 
a  m.an  and  a  woman,  together  with  a  dozen  green  cocoa- 
nuts  in  a  heap,  rocked  helplessly  after  the  Sofala  had 
passed,  like  a  navigating  contrivance  of  venturesome 
insects,  of  traveling  ants :  while  two  glassy  folds  of 
water  streaming  away  from  each  bow  of  the  steamer 
across  the  whole  width  of  the  river  ran  with  her  up 
stream  smoothly,  fretting  their  outer  ends  into  a  brown 
whispering  tumble  of  froth  against  the  miry  foot  of 
each  bank. 

"  I  m.ust,"  thought  Sterne,  "  bring  that  brute  Massy  I 

to  his  bearings.      It's   getting  too   absurd  in   the  end. 

Here's  the   old  man  up  there  buried  in  his   chair — he 

may  just  as  well  be  in  his  grave  for  all  the  use  he'll  ever 

[  290  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETH^ER 

be  in  the  world — and  the  Serang's  in  charge.  Because 
thai's  what  he  is.  In  charge.  In  the  place  that's  mine 
by  rights.  I  must  bring  that  savage  brute  to  his  bear- 
ings.    I'll  do  it  at  once,  too    .    .    ." 

When  the  mate  made  an  abrupt  start,  a  little  brown 
half-naked  boy,  with  large  black  eyes,  and  the  string 
of  a  written  charm  round  his  neck,  became  panic-struck 
at  once.  He  dropped  the  banana  he  had  been  munch- 
ing, and  ran  to  the  knee  of  a  grave  dark  Arab  in  flow- 
ing robes,  sitting  like  a  Biblical  figure,  incongruously, 
on  a  yellow  tin  trunk  corded  with  a  rope  of  twisted 
rattan.  The  father,  unmoved,  put  out  his  hand  to  pat 
the  little  shaven  poll  protectingly. 


XI 

Sterne  crossed  the  deck  upon  the  track  of  the  chief 
engineer.  Jack,  the  second,  retreating  backwards  down 
the  engine-room  ladder,  and  still  wiping  his  hands, 
treated  him  to  an  incomprehensible  grin  of  white  teeth 
out  of  his  grimy  hard  face ;  Massy  was  nowhere  to  be 
seen.  He  must  have  gone  straight  into  his  berth. 
Sterne  scratched  at  the  door  softly,  then,  putting  his 
lips  to  the  rose  of  the  ventilator,  said — 

"  I  must  speak  to  you,  Mr.  Massy.  Just  give  me  a 
minute  or  two." 

"  I  am  busy.     Go  away  from  my  door." 

"  But  pray,  Mr.  Massy    .    .    ." 

"  You  go  away.    D'you  hear  ?    Take  yourself  off  alto- 

[  291  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

gether — to  the  other  end  of  the  ship — quite  away  .  .  ." 
The  voice  inside  dropped  low.     '^  To  the  devil." 

Sterne  paused:  then  ver}^  quietly — 

"  It's  rather  pressing.  When  do  you  think  you  will 
be  at  liberty,  sir?  " 

The  answer  to  this  was  an  exasperated  "  Never  " ;  and 
at  once  Sterne,  with  a  very  firm  expression  of  face, 
turned  the  handle. 

Mr.  Massy's  stateroom — a  narrow,  one-berth  cabin — 
smelt  strongly  of  soap,  and  presented  to  view  a  swept, 
dusted,  unadorned  neatness,  not  so  much  bare  as  barren, 
not  so  much  severe  as  starved  and  lacking  in  humanity, 
like  the  ward  of  a  public  hospital,  or  rather  (owing  to 
the  small  size)  like  the  clean  retreat  of  a  desperately 
poor  but  exemplar}^  person.  Not  a  single  photograph 
frame  ornamented  the  bulkheads ;  not  a  single  article  of 
clothing,  not  as  much  as  a  spare  cap,  hung  from  the 
brass  hooks.  All  the  inside  was  painted  in  one  plain 
tint  of  pale  blue ;  two  big  sea-chests  in  sailcloth  covers 
and  with  iron  padlocks  fitted  exactly  in  the  space  under 
the  bunk.  One  glance  was  enough  to  embrace  all  the 
strip  of  scrubbed  planks  within  the  four  unconcealed 
corners.  The  absence  of  the  usual  settee  was  striking; 
the  teak-wood  top  of  the  washing-stand  seemed  hermeti- 
cally closed,  and  so  was  the  lid  of  the  writing-desk, 
which  protruded  from  the  partition  at  the  foot  of  the 
bed-place,  containing  a  mattress  as  thin  as  a  pancake 
under  a  threadbare  blanket  with  a  faded  red  stripe,  and 
a  folded  mosquito-net  against  the  nights  spent  in  harbor. 
There  was  not  a  scrap  of  paper  anywhere  in  sight,  no 
[  ^92  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

boots  on  the  floor,  no  litter  of  any  sort,  not  a  speck  of 
dust  anywhere;  no  traces  of  pipe-ash  even,  wliich,  in 
a  heavj'  smoker,  was  morally  revolting,  like  a  manifesta- 
tion of  extreme  hypocrisy;  and  the  bottom  of  the  old 
wooden  arm-chair  (the  only  seat  there),  polished  with 
much  use,  shone  as  if  its  shabbiness  had  been  waxed. 
The  screen  of  leaves  on  the  bank,  passing  as  if  unrolled 
endlessly  in  the  round  opening  of  the  port,  sent  a  yjaver- 
ing  network  of  light  and  shade  into  the  place. 

Sterne,  holding  the  door  open  with  one  hand,  had  thrust 
in  his  head  and  shoulders.  At  this  amazing  intrusion 
Massy,  who  was  doing  absolutely  nothing,  jumped  up 
speechless. 

"  Don't  call  names,"  murmured  Sterne  hurriedly.  "  I 
won't  be  called  names.  I  think  of  nothing  but  your 
good,  Mr.  Massy." 

A  pause  as  of  extreme  astonishment  followed.  They 
both  seemed  to  have  lost  their  tongues.  Then  the  mate 
went  on  with  discreet  glibness. 

"  You  simply  couldn't  conceive  what's  going  on  on 
board  your  ship.  It  wouldn't  enter  your  head  for  a 
moment.  You  are  too  good — too — too  upright,  Mr. 
Ma>sy,  to  suspect  anybod}'^  of  such  a  .  .  .  It's  enough 
to  make  your  hair  stand  on  end." 

He  watched  for  the  effect:  Massy  seemed  dazed,  un- 
comprehending. He  only  passed  the  palm  of  his  hand 
on  the  coal-black  wisps  plastered  across  the  top  of  his 
head.  In  a  tone  suddenly  changed  to  confidential  au- 
dacity Sterne  hastened  on. 

"  Remember  that  there's  only  six  weeks  left  to 
f  293  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

run  .  .  ."  The  other  was  looking  at  him  stonily  .  .  , 
'•  so  anyhow  you  shall  require  a  captain  for  the  ship 
before  long." 

Then  only,  as  if  that  suggestion  had  scarified  his  flesh 
in  the  manner  of  red-hot  iron,  Massy  gave  a  start  and 
seemed  ready  to  shriek.  He  contained  himself  by  a 
great  effort. 

"  Require  a  captain,"  he  repeated  with  scathing  slow- 
ness. "  Wlio  requires  a  captain?  You  dare  tell  me 
that  I  need  any  of  you  humbugging  sailors  to  run  my 
ship.  You  and  your  likes  have  been  fattening  on  me 
for  years.  It  would  have  hurt  me  less  to  throw 
my  money  overboard.  Pam — pe — red  us — e — less 
f-f-f-frauds.  The  old  ship  knows  as  much  as  the  best 
of  you."  He  snapped  his  teeth  audibly  and  growled 
through  them,  "  The  silly  law  requires  a  captain." 

Sterne  had  taken  heart  of  grace  meantime. 

"  And  the  silly  insurance  people  too,  as  well,"  he  saic^ 
lightly.  "  But  never  mind  that.  What  I  want  to  ask 
is:  Why  shouldn't  I  do,  sir.^^  I  don't  say  but  you  could 
take  a  steamer  about  the  world  as  well  as  any  of  us 
sailors.  I  don't  pretend  to  tell  you  that  it  is  a  very 
great  trick  .  .  ."  He  emitted  a  short,  hollow  guffaw, 
familiarly  ..."  I  didn't  make  the  law — but  there  it 
is ;  and  I  am  an  active  young  fellow !  I  quite  hold  with 
your  ideas;  I  know  your  ways  by  this  time,  Mr.  Massy, 
I  wouldn't  try  to  give  myself  airs  like  that — that — er — 
lazy  specimen  of  an  old  man  up  there." 

He  put  a  marked  emphasis  on  the  last  sentence,  to 
lead  Massy  away  from  the  track  in  case  .  .  .  but  he 
r  294'  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

did  not  doubt  of  now  holding  his  success. 

engineer  seemed  nonplused,  like  a  slow  man  invited  to 

catch  hold  of  a  whirligig  of  some  sort. 

"  What  you  want,  sir,  is  a  chap  with  no  nonsense  about 
him,  who  would  be  content  to  be  your  sailing-master. 
Quite  right,  too.  Well,  I  am  fit  for  the  work  as  much 
as  that  Serang.  Because  that's  what  it  amounts  to. 
Do  you  know,  sir,  that  a  dam'  Malay  like  a  monkey  i& 
in  charge  of  your  ship — and  no  one  else.  Just  listen 
to  his  feet  pit-patting  above  us  on  the  bridge — real 
officer  in  charge.  He's  taking  her  up  the  river  while 
the  g^eat  man  is  wallowing  in  the  chair — perhaps  asleep  ; 
and  if  he  is,  that  would  not  make  it  much  worse  either — 
take  my  word  for  it." 

He  tried  to  thrust  himself  farther  in.  Massy,  with 
lowered  forehead,  one  hand  grasping  the  back  of  the 
arm-chair,  did  not  budge. 

"  You  think,  sir,  that  the  man  has  got  3^ou  tight  in 
his  agreement  .  .  ."  Massy  raised  a  heavy  snarlin,^ 
face  at  this  ..."  Well,  sir,  one  can't  help  hearing 
of  it  on  board.  It's  no  secret.  And  it  has  been  the 
talk  on  shore  for  years ;  fellows  have  been  making  bets 
about  it.  No,  sir !  It's  you  who  have  got  him  at  your 
mercy.  You  will  say  that  you  can't  dismiss  him  for 
indolence.  Difficult  to  prove  in  court,  and  so  on.  Why^ 
yes.  But  if  you  say  the  word,  sir,  I  can  tell  you  some- 
thing about  his  indolence  that  will  give  you  the  clear 
right  to  fire  him  out  on  the  spot  and  put  me  in  charge 
for  the  rest  of  this  very  trip — yes,  sir,  before  we  leave 
Batu  Bern — and  make  him  pay  a  dollar  a  day  for  his 
[  295  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

keep  till  we  get  back,  if  you  like.  Now,  what  do  you 
think  of  that?  Come,  sir.  Say  the  word.  It's  really 
well  worth  jour  Avhilc,  and  I  am  quite  ready  to  take 
your  bare  word.  A  definite  statement  from  you  would 
be  as  good  as  a  bond." 

His  eyes  began  to  shine.  He  insisted.  A  simple  state- 
ment,— and  he  thought  to  himself  that  he  would  man- 
age somehow  to  stick  in  his  berth  as  long  as  it  suited 
him.  He  would  make  himself  indispensable;  the  ship 
had  a  bad  name  in  her  port;  it  would  be  easy  to  scare 
the  fellows  off.     Massy  would  have  to  keep  him. 

"  A  definite  statement  from  me  would  be  enough," 
Massy  repeated  slowly. 

"  Yes,  sir.  It  would."  Sterne  stuck  out  his  chin 
cheerily  and  blinked  at  close  quarters  with  that  uncon- 
scious impudence  which  had  the  power  to  enrage  Massy 
beyond  anything. 

The  engineer  spoke  very  distinctly. 

"  Listen  well  to  me,  then,  Mr.  Sterne :  I  wouldn't — 
d'ye  hear.'' — I  wouldn't  promise  you  the  value  of  two 
pence  for  anything  you  can  tell  me." 

He  struck  Sterne's  arm  away  with  a  smart  blow,  and 
catching  hold  of  the  handle  pulled  the  door  to.  The 
terrific  slam  darkened  the  cabin  instantaneously  to  liis 
eyes  as  if  after  the  flash  of  an  explosion.  At  once  he 
dropped  into  the  chair.  "  Oh,  no !  You  don't !  "  he 
whispered  faintly. 

The  ship  had  in  that  place  to  shave  the  bank  so  close 
that  the  gigantic  wall  of  leaves  came  gliding  like  a 
shutter  against  the  port;  the  darkness  of  the  primeval 

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THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

forest  seemed  to  flow  into  that  bare  cabin  with  the  odor 
of  rotting  leaves,  of  sodden  soil — the  strong  muddy  smel! 
of  the  living  earth  steaming  uncovered  after  the  pass- 
ing of  a  deluge.  The  bushes  swished  loudly  alongside; 
above  there  was  a  series  of  crackling  sounds,  with  a 
sharp  rain  of  small  broken  branches  falling  on  the 
bridge;  a  creeper  with  a  great  rustle  snapped  on  the 
head  of  a  boat  davit,  and  a  long,  luxuriant  green  twig 
actually  whipped  in  and  out  of  the  open  port,  leaving 
behind  a  few  torn  leaves  that  remained  suddenly  at  rest 
on  Mr.  Massy's  blanket.  Then,  the  ship  sheering  out 
in  the  stream,  the  light  began  to  return,  but  did  not 
augment  beyond  a  subdued  clearness:  for  the  sun  was 
very  low  already,  and  the  river,  wending  its  sinuous 
course  through  a  multitude  of  secular  trees  as  if  at  the 
bottom  of  a  precipitous  gorge,  liad  been  already  in- 
vaded by  a  deepening  gloom — the  swift  precursor  of 
the  night. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  don't !  "  murmured  the  engineer  again. 
His  lips  trembled  almost  imperceptibly;  his  hands  too, 
a  little :  and  to  calm  himself  he  opened  the  writing-desk, 
spread  out  a  sheet  of  thin  grayish  paper  covered  with 
a  mass  of  printed  figures  and  began  to  scan  them  at- 
tentively for  the  twentieth  time  this  trip  at  least. 

With  his  elbows  propped,  his  head  between  his  hands, 
he  seemed  to  lose  himself  in  the  study  of  an  abstruse 
problem  in  mathematics.  It  was  the  list  of  the  winning 
numbers  from  the  last  drawing  of  the  great  lottery 
which  had  been  the  one  inspiring  fact  of  so  many  years 
of  his  existence.     The  conception  of  a  life  deprived  of 

[  ^97  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

that  periodical  sheet  of  paper  had  slipped  away  from 
him  entirely,  as  another  man,  according  to  his  nature, 
would  not  have  been  able  to  conceive  a  world  without 
fresh  air,  without  activity,  or  without  affection.  A 
great  pile  of  flimsy  sheets  had  been  growing  for  years 
in  his  desk,  while  the  Sofala,  driven  by  the  faithful 
Jack,  wore  out  her  boilers  in  tramping  up  and  down  the 
Straits,  from  cape  to  cape,  from  river  to  river,  froir 
bay  to  bay;  accumulating  by  that  hard  labor  of  an 
overworked,  starved  ship  the  blackened  mass  of  these 
documents.  Massy  kept  them  under  lock  and  key  like 
a  treasure.  There  was  in  them,  as  in  the  experience 
of  life,  the  fascination  of  hope,  the  excitement  of  a  half- 
penetrated  mystery,  the  longing  of  a  half-satisfied 
desire. 

For  days  together,  on  a  trip,  he  would  shut  himself 
up  in  his  berth  with  them:  the  thump  of  the  toiling 
engines  pulsated  in  his  ear;  and  he  would  weary  his 
brain  poring  over  the  rows  of  disconnected  figures,  be- 
wildering by  their  senseless  sequence,  resembling  the 
hazards  of  destiny  itself.  He  nourished  a  conviction 
that  there  must  be  some  logic  lurking  somewhere  in  the 
results  of  chance.  He  thought  he  had  seen  its  very 
form.  His  head  swam ;  his  limbs  ached ;  he  puffed  at 
his  pipe  mechanically;  a  contemplative  stupor  would 
soothe  the  fretfulness  of  his  temper,  like  the  passive 
bodily  quietude  procured  by  a  drug,  while  the  intellect 
remains  tensely  on  the  stretch.  Nine,  nine,  nought,  four, 
two.  He  made  a  note.  The  next  winninfy  number  of 
the  great  prize  was  forty-seven  thousand  and  five.    These 

[  298  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

numbers  of  course  would  have  to  be  avoided  in  the  future 
when  writing  to  Manilla  for  the  tickets.  He  mumbled, 
pencil  in  hand  ..."  and  five.  Hm  .  .  .  hm."  He 
Tv-ettcd  his  finger :  the  papers  rustled.  Ha !  But  what's 
this.P  Three  years  ago,  in  the  September  drawing,  it 
Tvas  number  nine,  nought,  four,  two  that  took  the  first 
prize.  Most  rem^arkable.  There  was  a  hint  there  of 
a  definite  rule !  He  was  afraid  of  missing  some  recondite 
principle  in  the  overwhelming  wealth  of  his  material. 
What  could  it  be?  and  for  half  an  hour  he  would  remain 
dead  stilly  bent  low  over  the  desk,  without  twitching  a 
muscle.  At  his  back  the  whole  berth  would  be  thick 
with  a  heavy  body  of  smoke,  as  if  a  bomb  had  burst 
in  there,  unnoticed,  unheard. 

At  last  he  would  lock  up  the  desk  with  the  decision  of 
unshaken  confidence,  jump  up  and  go  out.  He  would 
walk  swiftly  back  and  forth  on  that  part  of  the  foredeck 
which  was  kept  clear  of  the  lumber  and  of  the  bodies  of 
the  native  passengers.  They  were  a  great  nuisance,  but 
they  were  also  a  source  of  profit  that  could  not  be  dis- 
dained. He  needed  every  penn}^  of  profit  the  Sofala 
could  make.  Little  enough  it  was,  in  all  conscience ! 
The  incertitude  of  chance  gave  him  no  concern,  since 
he  liad  somehow  arrived  at  the  conviction  that,  in  the 
course  of  years,  every  number  was  bound  to  have  his 
winning  turn.  It  was  simply  a  matter  of  time  and  of 
taking  as  many  tickets  as  he  could  afford  for  every 
drawing.  He  generally  took  rather  more;  all  the  earn- 
ings of  the  ship  went  that  way,  and  also  the  wages  he 
allowed  himself  as  chief  engineer.     It  was  the  wages  he 

[  299  ] 


THE   END   OF  THE   TETHER 

paid  to  others  that  h«  begrudged  with  a  reasoned  and 
at  the  same  time  a  passionate  regret.  He  scowled  at 
the  lascars  with  their  deck  brooms,  at  the  quarter- 
masters rubbing  the  brass  rails  with  greasy  rags ;  he 
was  eager  to  shake  his  fist  and  roar  abuse  in  bad  INIalay 
at  the  poor  carpenter — a  timid,  sickly,  opium-fuddled 
Chinaman,  in  loose  blue  drawers  for  all  costume,  who 
invariably  dropped  his  tools  and  fled  below,  with  stream- 
ing tail  and  shaking  all  over,  before  the  fury  of  that 
"  devil."  But  it  was  when  he  raised  up  his  eyes  to  the 
bridge  where  one  of  these  sailor  frauds  was  always 
planted  by  law  in  charge  of  his  ship  that  he  felt  almost 
dizzy  with  rage.  He  abominated  them  all;  it  was  an 
old  feud,  from  the  time  he  first  went  to  sea,  an  un^ 
licked  cub  with  a  great  opinion  of  himself,  in  the 
engine-room.  The  slights  that  had  been  put  upon  him. 
The  persecutions  he  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  skip- 
pers— of  absolute  nobodies  in  a  steamship  after  all- 
And  now  that  he  had  risen  to  be  a  shipowner  they  were 
wtill  a  plague  to  him:  he  had  absolutely  to  pay  away 
precious  money  to  the  conceited  useless  loafers  i' — As  if 
a  fully  qualified  engineer — who  was  the  owner  as  well — 
were  not  fit  to  be  trusted  with  the  whole  charge  of  a 
ship.  Well !  he  made  it  pretty  warm  for  them ;  but  it 
was  a  poor  consolation.  He  had  come  in  time  to  hate 
the  ship  too  for  the  repairs  she  required,  for  the  coal- 
bills  he  had  to  pa}^  for  the  poor  beggarly  freights  she 
earned.  He  would  clench  his  hand  as  he  walked  and  hit 
the  rail  a  sudden  blow,  viciously,  as  though  she  could 
be  made  to  feel  pain.     And  yet  he  could  not  do  without 

[  300  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

her;  he  needed  her;  he  must  hang  on  to  her  tooth  and 
nail  to  keep  his  head  above  water  till  the  expected  flood 
of  fortune  came  sweeping  up  and  landed  him  safely  on 
the  high  shore  of  his  ambition. 

It  was  new  to  do  nothing,  nothing  whatever,  and  have 
plenty  of  money  to  do  it  on.  He  had  tasted  of  power, 
the  highest  form  of  it  his  limited  experience  was  aware 
of — the  power  of  shipowning.  What  a  deception ! 
Vanity  of  vanities !  He  wondered  at  his  folly.  He  had 
thrown  away  the  substance  for  the  shadov/.  Of  the 
gratification  of  wealth  he  did  not  know  enough  to  excite 
his  imagination  with  any  visions  of  luxury.  How  could 
he — the  child  of  a  drunken  boiler-maker — going 
straight  from  the  workshop  into  the  engine-room  of  a 
north-country  collier!  But  the  notion  of  the  absolute 
idleness  of  wealth  he  could  very  well  conceive.  He 
reveled  in  it,  to  forget  his  present  troubles ;  he  imagined 
himself  walking  about  the  streets  of  Hull  (he  knew  their 
gutters  well  as  a  boy)  with  his  pockets  full  of  sov- 
ereigns. He  would  buy  himself  a  house;  his  married 
sisters,  their  husbands,  his  old  workshop  chums,  would 
render  him  infinite  homage.  There  would  be  nothing 
to  think  of.  His  word  would  be  law.  He  had  been  out 
of  work  for  a  long  time  before  he  won  his  prize,  and  he 
remembered  how  Carlo  Mariani  (commonly  known  as 
Paunchy  Charley),  the  Maltese  hotel-keeper  at  the 
slummy  end  of  Denham  Street,  had  cringed  joyfully 
before  him  in  the  evening,  when  the  news  had  come. 
Poor  Charley,  though  he  made  his  living  by  ministering 
to  various  abject  vices,  gave  credit  for  their  food  to 

[  301  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

many  a  piece  of  white  wreckage.  He  was  naively  over- 
joyed at  the  idea  of  his  old  bills  being  paid,  and  he 
reckoned  confidently  on  a  spell  of  festivities  in  the 
cavernous  grog-shop  dov/nstairs.  Massy  remembered 
the  curious,  respectful  looks  of  the  "  trashy  "  white  men 
in  the  place.  His  heart  had  swelled  within  him.  Massy 
had  left  Charley's  infamous  den  directly  he  had  realized 
the  possibilities  open  to  him,  with  his  nose  in  the  air. 
Afterwards  the  memory  of  these  adulations  was  a  great 
sadness. 

This  was  the  true  power  of  money, — and  no  trouble 
with  it,  nor  any  thinking  required  either.  He  thought 
with  difficulty  and  felt  vividly;  to  his  blunt  brain  the 
problems  offered  by  any  ordered  scheme  of  life  seemed 
in  their  cruel  toughness  to  have  been  put  in  his  way 
by  the  obvious  malevolence  of  men.  As  a  shipowner 
everyone  had  conspired  to  make  him  a  nobody.  How 
could  he  have  been  such  a  fool  as  to  purchase  that  ac- 
cursed ship?  He  had  been  abom.inably  swindled;  there 
was  no  end  to  this  swindling ;  and  as  the  difficulties  of  his 
improvident  ambition  gathered  thicker  round  him,  he 
really  came  to  hate  everybody  he  had  ever  come  in  con- 
tact with.  A  temper  naturally  irritable  and  an  amazing 
sensitiveness  to  the  claims  of  his  own  personality  had 
ended  by  making  of  life  for  him  a  sort  of  inferno — a 
place  where  his  lost  soul  had  been  given  up  to  the  tor- 
ment of  savage  brooding. 

But  he  had  never  hated  anyone  so  much  as  that  old 
man  who  had  turned  up  one  evening  to  save  him  from 
an  utter  disaster, — from  the  conspiracy  of  the  wretched 

[  302  ] 


i 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

sailors.  He  seemed  to  have  fallen  on  board  from  the 
sk3^  His  footsteps  echoed  on  the  empty  steamer,  and 
the  strange  deep-toned  voice  on  deck  repeating  inter- 
rogatively the  words,  "  Mr.  Massy,  Mr.  Massy  there.?  " 
had  been  startling  like  a  wonder.  And  coming  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  cold  engine-room,  where  he  had  been 
pottering  dismally  with  a  candle  amongst  the  enormous 
shadows,  thrown  on  all  sides  b}^  the  skeleton  limbs  of  ma- 
chinery, Massy  had  been  struck  dumb  by  astonishment 
in  the  presence  of  that  imposing  old  man  with  a  beard 
like  a  silver  plate,  towering  in  the  dusk  rendered  lurid 
by  the  expiring  flames  of  sunset. 

"  Want  to  see  me  on  business.?  What  business.?  I  am 
doing  no  business.  Can't  you  see  that  this  ship  is  laid 
up  ?  "  Massy  had  turned  at  bay  before  the  pursuing 
irony  of  his  disaster.  Afterwards  he  could  not  believe 
his  ears.  What  was  that  old  fellow  getting  at.?  Things 
don't  happen  that  way.  It  was  a  dream.  He  would 
presently  wake  up  and  find  the  man  vanished  like  a 
shape  of  mist.  The  gravity,  the  dignity,  the  firm  and 
courteous  tone  of  that  athletic  old  stranger  impressed 
Massy.  He  was  almost  afraid.  But  it  was  no  dream. 
Five  hundred  pounds  are  no  dream.  At  once  he  became 
suspicious.  WTiat  did  it  mean.?  Of  course  it  was  an 
offer  to  catch  hold  of  for  dear  life.  But  what  could 
there  be  behind? 

Before  the^^  had  parted,  after  appointing  a  meeting 
in  a  solicitor's  office  early  on  the  morrow.  Massy  was 
asking  himself.  What  is  his  m.otive?  He  spent  the  night 
in    hammering    out   the    clauses    of   the    agreement — a 

[  303   ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

unique  instrument  of  its  sort  whose  tenor  got  bruited 
abroad  somehow  and  became  the  talk  and  wonder  of  the 
port. 

Massy 's  object  had  been  to  secure  for  himself  as  many 
ways  as  possible  of  getting  rid  of  his  partner  without 
being  called  upon  at  once  to  pay  back  his  share.  Cap- 
tain Whalley's  efforts  were  directed  to  making  the  money 
secure.  Was  it  not  Ivy's  money — a  part  of  her  fortune 
whose  only  other  asset  was  the  time-defying  body  of  her 
old  father?  Sure  of  his  forbearance  in  the  strength  of 
his  love  for  her,  he  accepted,  with  stately  serenit}", 
Massy's  stupidly  cunning  paragraphs  against  his  in- 
competence, his  dishonesty,  his  drunkenness,  for  the  sake 
of  other  stringent  stipulations.  At  the  end  of  three 
years  he  v/as  at  liberty  to  withdraw  from  the  partner- 
sliip,  taking  his  money  with  him.  Provision  was  made 
for  forming  a  fund  to  pay  him  off.  But  if  he  left  the 
Sofala  before  the  term,  from  whatever  cause  (barring 
death).  Massy  was  to  have  a  whole  year  for  paying. 
"  Illness  ?  "  the  lawyer  had  suggested :  a  young  man 
fresh  from  Europe  and  not  overburdened  with  business, 
who  was  rather  amused.  Massy  began  to  whine  unctu- 
oushs  "  How  could  he  be  expected  .^^    .    .    ." 

"  Let  that  go,"  Captain  Whalley  had  said  with  a 
superb  confidence  in  his  body.  "  Acts  of  God,"  he 
added.  In  the  midst  of  life  we  are  in  death,  but  he 
trusted  his  Maker  with  a  still  greater  fearlessness — his 
Maker  who  knew  his  thoughts,  his  human  affections,  and 
his  motives.  His  Creator  knew  what  use  he  was  making 
of  his  health — how  much  he  wanted  it    .    .    .    "I  trust 

[  304   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

my  first  illness  will  be  my  last.     I've  never  been  ill  that 
I  can  remember,"  he  had  remarked.     "  Let  it  go." 
But    at    tliis    early    stage    he    had    already    awakened 

''  Massy's  hostility  by  refusing  to  make  it  six  hundred 
instead  of  five.  "  I  cannot  do  that,"  was  all  he  had  said, 
simply,  but  with  so  much  decision  that  Massy  desisted 
at  once  from  pressing  the  point,  but  had  thought  to 
himself,  "  Can't !  Old  curmudgeon.  Won't!  He  must 
have  lots  of  money,  but  he  would  like  to  get  hold  of  a 
soft  berth  and  the  sixth  part  of  my  profits  for  nothing 
if  he  only  could." 

And  during  these  years  Massy's  dislike  grew  under  the 
restraint  of  something  resembling  fear.  The  simplicity 
of  that  man  appeared  dangerous.  Of  late  he  had 
changed,  however,  had  appeared  less  formidable  and 
with  a  lessened  vigor  of  Hfe,  as  though  he  had  received 
a  secret  wound.     But  still  he  remained  incomprehensible 

I  in  his  simplicity,  fearlessness,  and  rectitude.  And  w^hen 
Massy  learned  that  he  meant  to  leave  him  at  the  end  of 
the  time,  to  leave  him  confronted  with  the  problem  of 
boilers,  his  dislike  blazed  up  secretly  into  hate. 

It  had  made  him  so  clear-eyed  that  for  a  long  time  now 
Mr.  Sterne  could  have  told  him  nothing  he  did  not 
know.  He  had  much  ado  in  trying  to  terrorize  that 
mean  sneak  into  silence;  he  wanted  to  deal  alone  with 
the  situation;  and — incredible  as  it  might  have  ap- 
peared to  Mr.  Sterne — he  had  not  yet  given  up  the  de- 
sire and  the  hope  of  inducing  that  hated  old  man  to 
stay.  Why !  there  was  nothing  else  to  do,  unless  he  were 
to  abandon  his  chances  of  fortune.    But  now,  suddenly, 

[  305  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETKER 

since  the  crossing  of  the  bar  at  Batu  Beru  things 
seemed  to  be  coming  rapidly  to  a  point.  It  disquieted 
him  so  much  that  the  study  of  the  winning  numbers 
failed  to  soothe  his  agitation:  and  the  twilight  in  the 
cabin  deepened,  very  somber. 

He  put  the  list  away,  muttering  once  more,  "  Oh,  no, 
my  boy,  you  don't.  Not  if  I  know  it."  He  did  not 
mean  the  blinking,  eavesdropping  humbug  to  force  his 
action.  He  took  his  head  again  into  his  hands ;  his  im- 
mobility confined  in  the  darkness  of  this  shut-up  little 
place  seemed  to  make  him  a  thing  apart  infinitely  re- 
moved from  the  stir  and  the  sounds  of  the  deck. 

He  heard  them:  the  passengers  were  beginning  to 
jabber  excitedly;  somebody  dragged  a  heavy  box 
past  his  door.  He  heard  Captain  Whalley's  voice 
above — 

"  Stations,  Mr.  Sterne."  And  the  answer  from  some- 
where on  deck  forward — 

"  Ay,  ay,  sir." 

"  We  shall  moor  head  up  stream  this  time ;  the  ebb 
has  made." 

"  Head  up  stream,  sir." 

"  You  will  see  to  it,  Mr.  Sterne." 

The  answer  was  covered  by  the  autocratic  clang  of  the 
engine-room  gong.  The  propeller  went  on  beating 
slowly:  one,  two,  three;  one,  two,  three — with  pauses  as 
if  hesitating  on  the  turn.  The  gong  clanged  time  after 
time,  and  the  water  churned  this  way  and  that  by  the 
blades  was  making  a  great  noisy  commotion  alongside, 
Mr.  Massy  did  not  move.     A  shore-light  on  the  other 

[   306  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

bank,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  across  the  river,  drifted,  no 
bigger  than  a  tiny  star,  passing  slowly  athwart  the  cir- 
cle of  the  port.  Voices  from  Mr.  Van  Wyk's  jetty  an- 
swered the  hails  from  the  ship;  ropes  were  thrown  and 
missed  and  thrown  again ;  the  swaying  flam.e  of  a  torch 
carried  in  a  large  sampan  coming  to  fetch  away  in  state 
the  Rajah  from  down  the  coast  cast  a  sudden  ruddy 
glare  into  his  cabin,  over  his  very  person.  Mr.  Massy 
did  not  move.  After  a  few  last  ponderous  turns  the 
j  engines  stopped,  and  the  prolonged  clanging  of  the 
:  gong  signified  that  the  captain  had  done  with  them.  A 
great  number  of  boats  and  canoes  of  all  sizes  boarded 
I  the  ofF-side  of  the  Sofala.  Then  after  a  time  the  tumult 
of  splashing,  of  cries,  of  shuffling  feet,  of  packages 
dropped  with  a  thump,  the  noise  of  the  native  passen- 
gers going  away,  subsided  slowly.  On  the  shore,  a 
voice,  cultivated,  slightly  authoritative,  spoke  very 
close  alongside — 

"  Brought  any  mail  for  me  this  time?  " 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Van  Wyk."  This  was  from  Sterne,  an- 
swering over  the  rail  in  a  tone  of  respectful  cordiality. 
"  Shall  I  bring  it  up  to  you?  " 

But  the  voice  asked  again — 

"Where's  the  captain?" 

"  Still  on  the  bridge,  I  believe.  He  hasn't  left  his 
chair.     Shall  I    .    .    ." 

The  voice  interrupted  negligently. 

"  I  will  come  on  board." 

"  Mr.  Van  Wyk,"  Sterne  suddenly  broke  out  with  an 
eager  effort,  "  will  you  do  me  the  favor   .    .   .'^ 

L   307   ] 


L 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

The  mate  walked  away  quickly  towards  the  gangway, 
A  silence  fell.     Mr.  Massy  in  the  dark  did  not  move. 

He  did  not  move  even  when  he  heard  slow  shuffling 
footsteps  pass  his  cabin  lazily.  He  contented  himself 
to  bellow  out  through  the  closed  door — 

"  You— Jack !  " 

The  footsteps  came  back  without  haste;  the  door 
handle  rattled,  and  the  second  engineer  appeared  in  the 
opening,  shadowy  in  the  sheen  of  the  skylight  at  his 
back,  with  his  face  apparently  as  black  as  the  rest  of 
his  figure. 

"  We  have  been  very  long  coming  up  this  time,"  Mr. 
Massy  growled,  without  changing  his  attitude. 

"  What  do  you  expect  with  half  the  boiler  tubes 
plugged  up  for  leaks."  The  second  defended  himself 
loquaciously. 

"  None  of  your  lip,"  said  Massy. 

"  None  of  your  rotten  boilers — I  say,"  retorted  his 
faithful  subordinate  without  animation,  huskily.  "  Go 
down  there  and  carry  a  head  of  steam  on  them  yourself — 
if  you  dare.     I  don't." 

"  You  aren't  worth  your  salt  then,"  Massy  said.  The 
other  made  a  faint  noise  which  resembled  a  laugh  but 
might  have  been  a  snarl. 

"  Better  go  slow  than  stop  the  ship  altogether,"  he 
admonished  his  admired  superior.  Mt.  Massy  moved 
at  last.  He  turned  in  his  chair,  and  grinding  his 
teeth — 

"  Dam'  you  and  the  ship !  I  wish  she  were  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea.    Then  you  would  have  to  starve." 

[  308  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

The  trusty  second  engineer  closed  the  door  gently. 

Massy  listened.  Instead  of  passing  on  to  the  bath- 
room where  he  should  have  gone  to  clean  himself,  the 
second  entered  his  cabin,  which  was  next  door.  Mr. 
Massy  jumped  up  and  waited.  Suddenly  he  heard  the 
lock  snap  in  there.  He  rushed  out  and  gave  a  violent 
kick  to  the  door. 

'  I  believe  you  are  locking  yourself  up  to  get  drunk," 
he  shouted. 

A  muffled  answer  came  after  a  while. 

"  My  own  time." 

"  If  you  take  to  boozing  on  the  trip  I'll  fire  you  out," 
Massy  cried. 

An  obstinate  silence  followed  that  threat.  Massy 
moved  away  perplexed.  On  the  bank  two  figures  ap- 
peared, approaching  the  gangway.  He  heard  a  voice 
tinged  with  contempt — 

"  I  would  rather  doubt  your  word.  But  I  shall  cer- 
tainly speak  to  him  of  this." 

The  other  voice,  Sterne's,  said  with  a  sort  of  regretful 
formality — 

"  Thanks.     That's  all  I  want.     I  must  do  my  duty." 

Mr.  Massy  was  surprised.  A  short,  dapper  figure 
leaped  lightly  on  the  deck  and  nearly  bounded  into  him 
where  he  stood  beyond  the  circle  of  light  from  the  gang- 
way lamp.  When  it  had  passed  towards  the  bridge, 
after  exchanging  a  hurried  "  Good  evening,"  Ma^sy 
said  surlily  to  Sterne  who  followed  with  slow  steps — 

"  What  is  it  you're  making  up  to  Mr.  Van  Wyk  for, 
now.?" 

[  309  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Far  from  it,  Mr.  Massy.  I  am  not  good  enough  foi 
Mr.  Van  Wyk.  Neither  are  you,  sir,  in  his  opinion,  I 
am  afraid.  Captain  Whalley  is,  it  seems.  He's  gone 
to  ask  him  to  dine  up  at  the  house  this  evening." 

Then  he  murmured  to  himself  darkly — 

"  I  hope  he  will  like  it." 

XII 

Mr.  Van  Wyk,  the  white  man  of  Batu  Beru,  an  ex- 
naval  officer  who,  for  reasons  best  known  to  himself,  had 
thrown  away  the  promise  of  a  brilliant  career  to  become 
the  pioneer  of  tobacco-planting  on  that  remote  part  of 
the  coast,  had  learned  to  like  Captain  Whalley.  The 
appearance  of  the  new  skipper  had  attracted  his  atten- 
tion. Nothing  more  unlike  all  the  diverse  types  he  had 
seen  succeeding  each  other  on  the  bridge  of  the  Sofala 
could  be  imagined. 

At  that  time  Batu  Beru  was  not  what  it  has  become 
since :  the  center  of  a  prosperous  tobacco-growing  dis- 
trict, a  tropically  suburban-looking  little  settlement  of 
bungalows  in  one  long  street  shaded  with  two  rows  of 
trees,  embowered  by  the  flowering  and  trim  luxuriance 
of  the  gardens,  with  a  three-mile-long  carriage-road  for 
the  afternoon  drives  and  a  first-class  Resident  with  a 
fat,  cheery  wife  to  lead  the  society  of  married  estate- 
managers  and  unmarried  young  fellows  in  the  service 
of  the  big  companies. 

All  this  prosperity  was  not  yet;  and  IMr.  Van  Wyk 
prospered  alone  on  the  left  bank  ofi  his  deep  clearing 

[  310  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

carved  out  of  the  forest,  which  came  down  above  and 
below  to  the  water's  edge.  His  lonely  bungalow  faced 
across  the  river  the  houses  of  the  Sultan:  a  restless  and 
melancholy  old  ruler  who  had  done  with  love  and  war, 
for  whom  life  no  longer  held  any  savor  (except  of  evil 
forebodings)  and  time  never  had  any  value.  He  was 
afraid  of  death,  and  hoped  he  would  die  before  the  white 
men  were  ready  to  take  his  country  from  him.  He 
crossed  the  river  frequently  (with  never  less  than  ten 
boats  crammed  full  of  people),  in  the  wistful  hope  of 
[extracting  some  information  on  the  subject  from  his 
own  white  man.  There  was  a  certain  chair  on  the 
: veranda  he  always  took:  the  dignitaries  of  the  court 
squatted  on  the  rugs  and  skins  between  the  furniture: 
the  inferior  people  remained  below  on  the  grass  plot 
ibetwccn  the  house  and  the  river  in  rows  three  or  four 
deep  all  along  the  front.  Not  seldom  the  visit  began  at 
"davbreak.  IMr.  Van  Wyk  tolerated  these  inroads.  He 
[would  nod  out  of  his  bedroom  window,  tooth-brush  or 
[razor  in  hand,  or  pass  through  the  throng  of  courtiers  in 
I  his  bathing  robe.  He  appeared  and  disappeared  hum- 
ming a  tune,  polished  his  nails  with  attention,  rubbed 
his  shaved  face  with  eau-de-Cologne,  drank  his  early 
tea,  went  out  to  see  his  coolies  at  work:  returned,  looked 
through  some  papers  on  his  desk,  read  a  page  or  two 
I  in  a  book  or  sat  before  his  cottage  piano  leaning  back 
ion  the  stool,  his  arms  extended,  fingers  on  the  keys,  his 
body  swaying  slightly  from  side  to  side.  When  abso- 
lutely forced  to  speak  he  gave  evasive  vaguely  soothing 
answers  out  of  pure  compassion :  the  same  feeling  per- 

[811  ] 


L 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

haps  made  him  so  lavishly  hospitable  with  the  aerated 
drinks  that  more  than  once  he  left  himself  without  soda- 
water  for  a  whole  week.  That  old  man  had  granted  him 
as  much  land  as  he  cared  to  have  cleared:  it  was  neither 
more  nor  less  than  a  fortune. 

Whether  it  was  fortune  or  seclusion  from  his  kind  that 
Mr.  Van  Wyk  sought,  he  could  not  have  pitched  upon 
a  better  place.  Even  the  niail-boats  of  the  subsidized 
company  calling  on  the  veriest  clusters  of  palm-thatched 
hovels  along  the  coast  steamed  past  the  mouth  of  Batu 
Beru  river  far  away  in  the  offing.  The  contract  was 
old:  perhaps  in  a  few  years'  time,  when  it  had  expired, 
Batu  Beru  would  be  included  in  the  service;  meantime 
all  Mr.  Van  Wyk's  mail  was  addressed  to  Malacca, 
whence  his  agent  sent  it  across  once  a  month  by  the 
Sofala.  It  followed  that  whenever  Massy  had  run  short 
of  money  (through  taking  too  many  lottery  tickets), 
or  got  into  a  difficulty  about  a  skipper,  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
was  deprived  of  his  letters  and  newspapers.  In  so  far 
he  had  a  personal  interest  in  the  fortunes  of  the  Sofala. 
Though  he  considered  himself  a  hermit  (and  for  nc 
passing  whim  evident!}',  since  he  had  stood  eight  years 
of  it  already),  he  liked  to  know  what  went  on  in  the 
world. 

Handy  on  the  veranda  upon  a  walnut  etagere  (it  had 
come  last  year  by  the  Sofala — everything  came  by  the 
Sofala)  there  lay,  piled  up  under  bronze  weights,  a  pile 
of  the  Times'  weekly  edition,  the  large  sheets  of  the 
Rotterdam  Courant,  the  Graphic  in  its  world-wide 
green  wrappers,  an  illustrated  Dutch  publication  with- 


THE   END   OF  THE   TETHER 

out  a  cover,  the  numbers  of  a  German  magazine  with 
covers  of  the  "  Bismarck  malade  "  color.  There  were 
also  parcels  of  new  music — though  the  piano  (it  had 
come  3^ears  ago  by  the  Sofala)  in  the  damp  atmosphere 
of  the  forests  was  generally  out  of  tune.  It  was  vexing 
to  be  cut  off  from  everything  for  sixty  days  at  a  stretch 
sometimes,  without  any  means  of  knowing  what  was  the 
matter.  And  when  the  Sofala  reappeared  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
would  descend  the  steps  of  the  veranda  and  stroll  over 
the  grass  plot  in  front  of  his  house,  down  to  the  water- 
side, with  a  frown  on  his  white  brow. 

"  You've  been  laid  up  after  an  accident,  I  presume." 

He  addressed  the  bridge,  but  before  anybody  could 
answer  Massy  was  sure  to  have  already  scrambled  ashore 
over  the  rail  and  pushed  in,  squeezing  the  palms  of  his 
hands  together,  bowing  his  sleek  head  as  if  gummed  all 
over  the  top  with  black  threads  and  tapes.  And  he 
would  be  so  enraged  at  the  necessity  of  having  to  offer 
such  an  explanation  that  his  moaning  would  be  posi- 
tively pitiful,  while  all  the  time  he  tried  to  compose 
his  big  lips  into  a  smile. 

"  No,  Mr.  Van  Wyk.  You  would  not  believe  it.  I 
couldn't  get  one  of  those  wretches  to  take  the  ship  out. 
Not  a  single  one  of  the  lazy  beasts  could  be  induced, 
and  the  law,  you  know,  Mr.  Van  Wyk    .    .    ." 

He  moaned  at  great  length  apologetically;  the  words 
conspiracy,  plot,  envy,  came  out  prominently,  whined 
with  greater  energy.  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  examining  with 
a  faint  grimace  his  polished  finger-nails,  would  say, 
*'  H'm.     Very  unfortunate,"  and  turn  his  back  on  him* 

[  31S  3 


I 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Fastidious,  clever,  slightl^^  skeptical,  accustomed  to  the 
Sest  society  (he  had  held  a  niuch-envicd  shore  appoint- 
<ment  at  the  Ministry  of  Marine  for  a  year  preceding 
his  retreat  from  his  profession  and  from  Europe),  he 
possessed  a  latent  warmth  of  feeling  and  a  capacity  for 
sympathy  which  were  concealed  by  a  sort  of  haughty, 
arbitrary  indifference  of  manner  arising  from  his  early 
training:  and  b}^  a  something  an  enemy  might  have 
called  foppish,  in  his  aspect — like  a  distorted  echo  of 
past  elegancies.  He  managed  to  keep  an  almost  mili- 
tary discipline  amongst  the  coolies  of  the  estate  he  liad 
■dragged  into  the  light  of  day  out  of  the  tangle  and 
shadows  of  the  jungle;  and  the  white  shirt  he  put 
on  ever}^  evening  with  its  stiff  glossy  front  and  high 
collar  looked  as  if  he  had  meant  to  prescrA^e  the  decent 
^'eremonj^  of  evening-dress,  but  had  wound  a  thick  crim- 
son sash  above  his  hips  as  a  concession  to  the  wilderness, 
once  his  adversary,  now  his  vanquished  companioH. 
Moreover,  it  was  a  hygienic  precaution.  Worn  wide 
open  in  front,  a  short  jacket  of  some  airy  silken  stuff 
floated  from  his  shoulders.  His  fluffy,  fair  hair,  li-in 
at  the  top,  curled  slightly  at  the  sides ;  a  carefully  ar- 
ranged mustache,  an  ungarnished  forehead,  the  gleam 
of  low  patent  shoes  peeping  under  the  wide  bottom  of 
trowsers  cut  straight  from  the  same  stuff  as  the  gossa- 
mer coat,  completed  a  figure  recalling,  with  its  sash,  a 
pirate  chief  of  romance,  and  at  the  same  time  the  ele- 
gance of  a  slightly  bald  dandy  indulging,  in  seclusion, 
■a  taste  for  unorthodox  costume. 

It  was  his  evening  get-up.     The  pro|!>er  time  for  the 
[  314  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Sofala  to  arrive  at  Batu  Beru  was  an  hour  before  sun- 
set, and  he  looked  picturesque,  and  somehow  quite  cor- 
rect too,  walking  at  the  water's  edge  on  the  background 
of  grass  slope  crowned  with  a  low  long  bungalow  with 
an  immensely  steep  roof  of  palm  thatch,  and  clad  to  the 
eares  in  flowering  creepers.  While  the  Sofala  was  being 
made  fast  he  strolled  in  the  shade  of  the  few  trees  left 
near  the  landing-place,  waiting  till  he  could  go  on 
board.  Her  white  men  were  not  of  his  kind.  The  old 
Sultan  (though  his  wistful  invasions  were  a  nuisance) 
was  really  much  more  acceptable  to  his  fastidious  taste. 
But  still  they  were  white;  the  periodical  visits  of  the 
I  ship  made  a  break  in  the  well-filled  sameness  of  the 
days  without  disturbing  his  privacy.  Moreover,  they 
i  were  necessary  from  a  business  point  of  view;  and 
I  through  a  strain  of  preciseness  in  his  nature  he  was 
irritated  when  she  failed  to  appear  at  the  appointed 
time. 

The  cause  of  the  irregularity  was  too  absurd,  and 
Massy,  in  his  opinion,  was  a  contemptible  idiot.  The 
first  time  the  Sofala  reappeared  under  the  new  agree- 
ment swinging  out  of  the  bend  below,  after  he  had 
almost  given  up  all  hope  of  ever  seeing  her  again,  he 
felt  so  angry  that  he  did  not  go  down  at  once  to  the 
landing-place.  His  servants  had  come  running  to  him 
with  the  news,  and  he  had  dragged  a  chair  close  against 
the  front  rail  of  the  veranda,  spread  his  elbows  out, 
rested  his  chin  on  his  hands,  and  went  on  glaring  at 
her  fixedly  while  she  was  being  made  fast  opposite  his 
house.     He  could  make  out  easily  all  the  white  faces  on 

[  315  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

board.  Who  on  earth  was  that  kind  of  patriarch  they 
had  got  there  on  the  bridge  now? 

At  last  he  sprang  up  and  walked  down  the  gravel  path. 
It  was  a  fact  that  the  very  gravel  for  his  paths  had 
been  imported  by  the  Sofala.  Exasperated  out  of  his 
quiet  superciliousness,  without  looking  at  anyone  right 
or  left,  he  accosted  Glassy  straightway  in  so  determined 
a  manner  that  the  engineer,  taken  aback,  began  to 
stammer  unintelligibly.  Nothing  could  be  heard  but 
the  words :  "  Mr.  Van  Wyk  .  .  .  Indeed,  Mr.  Van 
Wyk  .  .  .  For  the  future,  Mr.  Van  Wyk  "—and  by  the 
suffusion  of  blood  Massy's  vast  bilious  face  acquired  an 
unnatural  orange  tint,  out  of  which  the  disconcerted 
coal-black  eyes  shone  in  an  extraordinary  manner. 

"  Nonsense.  I  am  tired  of  this.  I  wonder  you  have 
the  impudence  to  come  alongside  my  jetty  as  if  I  had 
it  made  for  your  convenience  alone." 

Massy  tried  to  protest  earnestly.  Mr.  Van  Wyk  was 
very  angry.  He  had  a  good  mind  to  ask  that  German 
firm — those  people  in  Malacca — what  was  their  name? — 
boats  with  green  funnels.  They  would  be  only  too  glad 
of  the  opening  to  put  one  of  their  small  steamers  on 
the  run.  Yes;  Schnitzler,  Jacob  Schnitzler,  would  in  a 
moment.     Yes.     He  had  decided  to  write  without  dela}^ 

In  his  agitation  Massy  caught  up  his  falling  pipe. 

"  You  don't  mean  it,  sir !  "  he  shrieked. 

"  You  shouldn't  mismanage  your  business  in  this 
ridiculous  manner." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  turned  on  his  heel.  The  other  three 
whites  on  the  bridge  had  not  stirred  during  the  scene. 

r  316  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Massy  walked  hastily  from  side  to  side,  puffed  out  his 
cheeks,  suffocated. 

"  Stuck  up  Dutchman  !  " 

And  he  moaned  out  feverishly  a  long  tale  of  griefs. 
The  efforts  he  had  made  for  all  these  years  to  please 
that  man.  This  was  the  return  you  got  for  it,  eh.'* 
Pretty.  Write  to  Schnitzler — let  in  the  green-funnel 
boats — get  an  old  Hamburg  Jew  to  ruin  him.  No, 
really  he  could  laugh.  .  .  .  He  laughed  sobbingly.  .  .  . 
Ha !  ha  !  ha !  And  make  him  carry  the  letter  in  his  ovv'n 
ship  presumably. 

He  stumbled  across  a  grating  and  sv/ore.  He  would 
not  hesitate  to  fling  the  Dutchman's  correspondence 
overboard — the  whole  confounded  bundle.  He  had 
never,  never  made  any  charge  for  that  accommodation. 
But  Captain  Whalle}^,  his  new  partner,  would  not  let 
him  probably;  besides,  it  would  be  only  putting  off  the 
evil  day.  For  his  own  part  he  would  make  a  hole  in  the 
water  rather  than  look  on  tamel}^  at  the  green  funnels 
overrunning  his  trade. 

He  raved  aloud.  The  China  boys  hung  back  with  the 
dishes  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder.  He  yelled  from  the 
bridge  dov/n  at  the  deck,  "  Aren't  we  going  to  have  any 
chow  this  evening  at  all.'* "  then  turned  violently  to 
Captain  Whalley,  who  waited,  grave  and  patient,  at 
the  head  of  the  table,  smoothing  his  beard  in  silence 
now  and  then  with  a  forbearing  gesture. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  what  happens  to  me.  Don't 
you  see  that  this  affects  your  interests  as  much  as  mine.^ 
It's  no  joking  matter." 

[  317  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

He  took  the  foot  of  the  table  growling  between  kis 
teeth. 

"  Unless  you  have  a  few  thousands  put  away  some- 
where.    I  haven't." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  dined  in  his  thoroughly  lit-up  bunga- 
low, putting  a  point  of  splendor  in  the  night  of  liis 
clearing  above  the  dark  bank  of  the  river.  Afterwards 
he  sat  down  to  his  piano,  and  in  a  pause  he  became  aware 
of  slow  footsteps  passing  on  the  path  along  the  front. 
A  plank  or  two  creaked  under  a  heavy  tread;  he  swung 
half  round  on  the  music-stool,  listening  with  his  finger- 
tips at  rest  on  the  keyboard.  His  little  terrier  barked 
violently,  backing  in  from  the  veranda.  A  deep  voice 
apologized  gravely  for  "  this  intrusion."  He  walked  out , 
quickly. 

At  the  head  of  the  steps  the  patriarchal  figure,  who 
was  the  new  captain  of  the  Sofala  apparently  (he  had 
seen  a  round  dozen  of  them,  but  not  one  of  that  sort), 
towered  without  advancing.  The  little  dog  barked  un- 
ceasingly, till  a  flick  of  Mr.  Van  Wyk's  handkerchief 
made  him  spring  aside  into  silence.  Captain  Whallry, 
opening  the  matter,  was  met  by  a  punctiliously  pohtc 
but  determined  opposition. 

They  carried  on  their  discussion  standing  where  they 
had  come  face  to  face.  Mr.  Van  Wyk  observed  })is 
^^sitor  with  attention.  Then  at  last,  as  if  forced  out  of 
his  reserve — 

"  I  am  surprised  that  you  should  intercede  for  such  a 
confounded  fool." 

Tliis    outbreak    was    almost   complimentary,    as    if   it^ 
[  318  ] 


Tl.  i.:    END    OF   THE    TETHER 

jii^.^aiiing  had  been,  "  That  such  a  man  as  you  should' 
iatcrcede !  "  Captain  Whalley  let  it  pass  by  without 
fliaching.  One  would  have  thought  he  had  heard  noth- 
ing. He  simply  went  on  to  state  that  he  was  personally 
interested  in  putting  things  straight  between  them. 
Personally    .    .    . 

But  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  really  carried  away  by  his  disgusrt 
with  ]Massy,  became  ver}'  incisive — 

"  Indeed — if  I  am  to  be  frank  with  you — his  whole 
dfiaracter  docs  not  seem  to  me  particularly  estimable  or 
trustworthy    .    .    ." 

Captain  Whalle}^  always  straight,  seemed  to  grow  an 
imch  taller  and  broader,  as  if  the  girth  of  his  chest  had 
suddenly  expanded  under  his  beard. 

"  My  dear  sir,  you  don't  think  I  came  here  to  discuss 
a  man  with  whom  I  am — I  am — h'm — closely  asso- 
ciated." 

A  sort  of  solemn  silence  lasted  for  a  moment.  He  was 
not  used  to  asking  favors,  but  the  importance  he  at- 
ta<?lsed  to  this  affair  had  made  him  willing  to  try.  ... 
Mr.  Van  Wj'k,  favorably  impressed,  and  suddenly  mol- 
liliad  by  a  desire  to  laugh,  interrupted — 

"  That's  all  right  if  you  make  it  a  personal  matter ; 
bi^  you  can  do  no  less  than  sit  down  and  smoke  a  cigar 
with  me." 

A  slight  pause,  then  Captain  Whalley  stepped  forward 
hearily.  As  to  the  regularity  of  the  service,  for  the 
futjjre  he  made  himself  responsible  for  it;  and  his  name 
was  Whalley — perhaps  to  a  sailor  (he  was  speaking  to 
a  sailor,  was  he  not.'^)  not  altogether  unfamiliar.     There 

[  319  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

was  a  lighthouse  now,  on  an  island.     Maybe  Mr.  Van 
Wyk  himself    .    .    . 

"  Oh  j^es.  Oh  indeed."  Mr.  Van  V^^yk  caught  on  at 
once.  He  indicated  a  chair.  How  very  interesting. 
For  his  own  part  he  had  seen  some  service  in  the  last 
Acheen  War^  but  had  never  been  so  far  East.  Whalley 
Island.'^  Of  course.  Now  that  was  very  interesting. 
What  changes  liis  guest  must  have  seen  since. 

"  I  can  look  further  back  even — on  a  whole  half- 
century." 

Captain  Whalley  expanded  a  bit.  The  flavor  of  a 
good  cigar  (it  was  a  weakness)  had  gone  straight  to  his 
heart,  also  the  civility  of  that  young  man.  There  vras 
something  in  that  accidental  contact  of  which  he  had 
been  starved  in  his  years  of  struggle.  ^ 

The  front  wall  retreating  made  a  square  recess  fi«i'-| 
nished  like  a  room.  A  lamp  vvith  a  milky  glass  shade, 
suspended  below  the  slope  of  the  high  roof  at  the  end 
of  a  slender  brass  chain,  threw  a  bright  round  of  light 
upon  a  little  table  bearing  an  open  book  and  an  ivory 
paper-knife.  And,  in  the  translucent  shadows  beyond, 
other  tables  could  be  seen,  a  number  of  easy-chairs  of 
various  shapes,  with  a  great  profusion  of  skin  rugs 
strewn  on  the  tcakwood  planking  all  over  the  veranda. 
The  flowering  creepers  scented  the  air.  Their  foliage 
clipped  out  between  the  uprights  made  as  if  several 
frames  of  thick  unstirring  leaves  reflecting  the  lamp- 
light in  a  green  glow.  Through  the  opening  at  his 
«lbow  Captain  Whalley  could  see  the  gangway  lantern 
of  the  Sofala  burning  dim  by  the  shore,  the  shadowy 

[  320  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

masses  of  the  town  beyond  the  open  lustrous  darkness 
of  the  river,  and,  as  if  hung  along  the  straight  edge 
of  the  projecting  eaves,  a  narrow  black  strip  of  the 
night  sky  full  of  stars — resplendent.  The  famous  cigar 
in  hand  he  had  a  moment  of  complacency. 

"  A  trifle.  Somebody  must  lead  the  way.  I  just 
showed  that  the  thing  could  be  done;  but  you  men 
brought  up  to  the  use  of  steam  cannot  conceive  the 
vast  importance  of  my  bit  of  venturesomeness  to 
the  Eastern  trade  of  the  time.  Why,  that  new  route 
reduced  the  average  time  of  a  southern  passage  by 
eleven  days  for  more  than  half  the  year.  Eleven  days ! 
It's  on  record.  But  the  remarkable  thing — speaking 
to  a  sailor — I  should  say  was    .    .    ." 

He  talked  well,  without  egotism,  professionally.  The 
powerful  voice,  produced  without  effort,  filled  the 
bungalow  even  into  the  empty  rooms  with  a  deep  and 
limpid  resonance,  seemed  to  make  a  stillness  outside  ; 
and  Mr.  Van  Wyk  was  surprised  by  the  serene  quality 
of  its  tone,  like  the  perfection  of  manly  gentleness. 
Nursing  one  small  foot,  in  a  silk  sock  and  a  patent 
leather  shoe,  on  his  knee,  he  was  immensely  entertained. 
It  was  as  if  nobody  could  talk  like  this  now,  and  the 
overshadowed  eyes,  the  flowing  white  beard,  the  big 
fram.e,  the  serenity,  the  whole  temper  of  the  man,  were 
an  amazing  survival  from  the  prehistoric  times  of  the 
world  coming  up  to  him  out  of  the  sea. 

Captain  Whalley  had  been  also  the  pioneer  of  the  early 
trade  in  the  Gulf  of  Pe-tchi-li.  He  even  found  occasion 
to  mention  that  he  had  buried  his  "  dear  wife  "  there 

[  321   ] 


THE   END   OF  THE   TETHER 

aaix-ajid-twentj  ^^ears  ago.  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  impassive, 
cmild  not  help  speculating  in  his  mind  swiftly  as  to 
Hie  sort  of  woman  that  would  mate  with  such  a  man. 
Did  they  make  an  adventurous  and  well-matched  pair? 
'No.  Very  possibly  she  had  been  small,  frail,  no  doubt 
wery  feminine — or  most  likely  commonplace  with  do- 
mestic instincts,  utterly  insignificant.  But  Captain 
Whalley  was  no  garrulous  bore,  and  shaking  his  head 
as  if  to  dissipate  the  momentary  gloom  that  had  settled 
(sm  his  handsome  old  face,  he  alluded  conversationally  to 
Mr.  Van  Wyk's  solitude. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  affirmed  that  sometimes  he  had  more 
company  than  he  wanted.  He  mentioned  smilingly 
some  of  the  peculiarities  of  his  intercourse  with  "  My 
Saltan."  He  made  his  visits  in  force.  Those  people 
damaged  his  grass-plot  in  front  (it  was  not  easy  to 
«>btain  some  approach  to  a  lawn  in  the  tropics),  and  the 
©iher  day  had  broken  down  some  rare  bushes  he  had 
planted  over  there.  And  Captain  Whalley  remembered 
iiQinediately  that,  in  'forty-seven,  the  then  Sultan,  "  tliis 
ntan^s  grandfather,"  had  been  notorious  as  a  great  pro- 
f-ector  of  the  piratical  fleets  of  praus  from  farther  East. 
T!hey  had  a  safe  refuge  in  the  river  at  Batu  Beru.  He 
feanced  more  especialh^  a  Balinini  chief  called  Haji 
Daman.  Captain  Whalley,  nodding  significantly  his 
fcnshy  white  eyebrows,  had  very  good  reason  to  know 
acsnething  of  that.  The  world  had  progressed  since 
tisat  time. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  demurred  with  unexpected  acrimony. 
Rogressed  in  what?  he  wanted  to  know. 

[  322  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

Why,  in  knowledge  of  truth,  in  decenc}^,  in  justice,  m 
order — in  honesty  too^  since  men  harmed  each  other 
mostly  from  ignorance.  It  was,  Captain  Whalley  con- 
eluded  quaintly,  more  pleasant  to  live  in. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  whimsically  would  not  admit  that  Mr» 
Massy,  for  instance,  was  more  pleasant  naturally  tbam 
the  Balinini  pirates. 

The  river  had  not  gained  much  by  the  change,  Thej 
were  in  their  way  every  bit  as  honest.  Massy  was  les^ 
ferocious  than  Haji  Daman  no  doubt,  but   .   .   . 

"  And  what  about  you,  my  good  sir.? "  Captam 
Whalley  laughed  a  deep  soft  laugh.  "  You  are  an  im- 
provement, surely." 

He  continued  in  a  vein  of  pleasantry.  A  good  cigar- 
was  better  than  a  knock  on  the  head — ^the  sort  of  wel- 
come he  would  have  found  on  this  river  forty  or  fifty 
years  ago.  Then  ^  waning  forward  slightly,  he  became 
earnestly  serious,  it  seems  as  if,  outside  their  own  sea- 
gypsy  tribes,  these  rovers  liad  hated  all  mankind  with 
an  Incomprehensible,  bloodthirsty  hatred.  Meantime 
their  depredations  had  been  stopped,  and  what  was  the 
consequence?  The  new  generation  was  orderly,  peace- 
able,  settled  in  prosperous  villages.  He  could  speak 
from  personal  knowledge.  And  even  the  few  surv^ivors? 
of  that  time — old  men  now — had  changed  so  much,  thaf 
it  would  have  been  unkind  to  remember  against  tlieni;' 
that  *hey  had  ever  slit  a  throat  in  their  lives.  He  hacC 
^  one  especially  in  his  mind's  eye:  a  dignified,  venerable 
headman  of  a  certain  large  coast  village  about  sixf^ 
miles  sou  Vest  of  Tampasuk.     It  did  one's  heart  goodl 

[  323  ] 


THE,  END   OF   THE   TETHER 

to  see  him — to  hear  that  man  speak.  He  might  have 
been  a  ferocious  savage  once.  What  men  wanted  was 
to  be  checked  by  superior  intelHgence,  by  superior 
knowledge,  by  superior  force  too — yes,  by  force  held  in 
trust  from  God  and  sanctified  by  its  use  in  accordance 
with  His  declared  will.  Captain  Whalley  beliei^ed  a  dis- 
position for  good  existed  in  every  man,  even  if  the 
world  were  not  a  very  happy  place  as  a  whole.  In  the 
wisdom  of  men  he  had  not  so  much  confidence.  The  dis- 
position had  to  be  helped  up  pretty  sharply  sometimes, 
he  admitted.  They  might  be  silly,  wrongheaded,  un- 
happy; but  naturally  evil — no.  There  was  at  bottom 
a  complete  harmlessness  at  least    .    .    . 

"Is  there?"  Mr.  Van  Wyk  snapped  acrimoniously. 

Captain  Whalley  laughed  at  the  interjection,  in  the 
good  humor  of  large,  tolerating  certitude.  He  could 
look  back  at  half  a  century,  he  pointed  out.  The  smoke 
oozed  placidly  through  the  white  hairs  hiding  his  kindly 
lips. 

"  At  all  events,"  he  resumed  after  a  pause,  "  I  an", 
glad  that  they've  had  no  time  to  do  you  much  harm  as 
yet." 

This  allusion  to  his  comparative  youthfulness  did  not 
offend  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  who  got  up  and  wriggled  his 
shoulders  vv^ith  an  enigmatic  half-smile.  They  walked 
out  together  amicably  into  the  starry  night  towards 
the  river-side.  Their  footsteps  resounded  unequalh^  on 
the  dark  path.  At  the  shore  end  of  the  gangway  the 
lantern,  hung  low  to  the  handrail,  threw  a  vivid  light 
on  the  white  legs  and  the  big  black  feet  of  Mr.  Massy 

[  324  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

waiting  about  anxiously.  From  the  waist  upwards  he 
remained  shadowy,  with  a  row  of  buttons  gleaming  up 
to  the  vague  outline  of  his  chin. 

"  You  may  thank  Captain  Whalley  for  this,"  Mr.  Van 
Wyk  said  curtly  to  him  before  turning  away. 

The  lamps  on  the  veranda  flung  three  long  squares 
of  light  between  the  uprights  far  over  the  grass.  A  bat 
flitted  before  liis  face  like  a  circling  flake  of  velvety 
blackness.  Along  the  jasmine  hedge  the  night  air 
seemed  heavj^  with  the  fall  of  perfumed  dew ;  flower- 
beds bordered  the  path;  the  clipped  bushes  uprose  in 
dark  rounded  clumps  here  and  there  before  the  house; 
the  dense  foHage  of  creepers  filtered  the  sheen  of  the 
lamplight  within  in  a  soft  glow  all  along  the  front; 
and  everything  near  and  far  stood  still  in  a  great  im- 
mobility, in  a  great  sweetness. 

Mr.  Van  W3^k  (a  few  years  before  he  had  had  occasion 
to  imagine  himself  treated  more  badly  than  anybody 
alive  had  ever  been  by  a  woman)  felt  for  Captain 
Whalley's  optimistic  views  the  disdain  of  a  man  who 
had  once  been  credulous  himself.  His  disgust  with  the 
world  (the  woman  for  a  tim.e  had  filled  it  for  him  com- 
pletely) had  taken  the  form  of  activity  in  retirement, 
because,  though  capable  of  great  depth  of  feeling,  he 
was  energetic  and  essentially  practical.  But  there  was 
in  that  uncommon  old  sailor,  drifting  on  the  outskirts 
of  his  busy  solitude,  something  that  fascinated  his 
skepticism.  His  very  simplicity  (amusing  enough)  was 
like  a  delicate  refinement  of  an  upright  character.  The 
striking  dignity  of  manner  could  be  nothing  else,  in  a 

[  325  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

anan  reduced  to  such  a  humble  position,  but  the  ex- 
pression of  something  essentially  noble  in  the  character. 
With  all  his  trust  in  mankind  he  was  no  fool ;  the  seren- 
ity of  his  temper  at  the  end  of  so  many  years,  since  it 
could  not  obviously  have  been  appeased  by  success,  wore 
^01  air  of  profound  wisdom.  Mr.  Van  Wyk  was  amused 
a.t  it  sometimes.  Even  the  very  physical  traits  of  the 
^M  captain  of  the  Sofala,  his  powerful  frame,  his  re- 
poseful mien,  his  intelligent,  handsome  face,  the  big 
limbs,  the  benign  courtesy,  the  touch  of  rugged  severity 
m  the  shaggy  eyebrows,  made  up  a  seductive  person- 
alty. Mr.  Van  Wyk  disliked  littleness  of  every  kind, 
hut  there  was  nothing  small  about  that  man,  and  in 
ihe  exemplary  regularity  of  many  trips  an  intimacy  had 
grown  up  between  them,  a  wann  feeling  at  bottom  under 
a  kindly  stateliness  of  forms  agreeable  to  his  fastidious- 


They  kept  their  respective  opinions  on  all  worldly 
matters.  His  other  convictions  Captain  Whalley  never 
intruded.  The  difference  of  their  ages  was  like  another 
bond  between  them.  Once,  when  twitted  with  the  un- 
charitableness  of  his  youth,  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  running  his 
eye  over  the  vast  proportions  of  his  interlocutor,  re- 
torted in  friendly  banter — 

"  Oh.  You'll  come  to  ray  way  of  thinking  yet.  You'U 
liave  plenty  of  time.  Don't  call  yourself  old:  you  look 
good  for  a  round  hundred." 

But  he  could  not  help  his  stinging  incisiveness,  and 
though  moderating  it  by  an  almost  affectionate  smile, 
he  added — 

[  326  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  And  by  then  you  will  probably  consent  to  die  f^smm 
sheer  disgust." 

Captain  Whalley,  smiling  too,  shook  his  head,  ^"fedl 
forbid !  " 

He  thought  that  perhaps  on  the  whole  he  deserves^ 
something  better  than  to  die  in  such  sentiments.  TIk- 
time  of  course  would  have  to  come,  and  he  trusted  to 
his  Maker  to  provide  a  manner  of  going  out  of  whii^ 
he  need  not  be  ashamed.  For  the  rest  he  hoped  ht 
would  live  to  a  hundred  if  need  be:  other  men  had  becai 
Icnown  ;  it  would  be  no  miracle.    He  expected  no  miraciesk. 

The  pronounced,  argumentative  tone  caused  Mr.  Y&wi 
Wjk  to  raise  his  head  and  look  at  him  steadily.  Cap- 
tain Whalley  was  gazing  fixedly  with  a  rapt  expressioo^. 
as  though  he  had  seen  his  Creator's  favorable  decree^ 
written  in  mysterious  characters  on  the  wall.  He  tept 
perfectly  motionless  for  a  few  seconds,  then  got  his  irgcsl 
bulk  on  to  his  feet  so  impetuously  that  Mr.  Van  Wjl: 
was  startled. 

He  struck  first  a  heavy  blow  on  his  inflated  chest :  and^ 
throwing  out  horizontally  a  big  arm  that  remained 
steady,  extended  in  the  air  like  the  limb  of  a  tree  mm 
a  windless  day — 

'*  Not  a  pain  or  an  ache  there.  Can  you  see  this  stefcp" 
In  the  least?" 

His  voice  was  low,  in  an  awing,  confident  contrast  m& 
the  headlong  emphasis  of  his  movements.  He  sat  (Scmm 
abruptly. 

"  This  isn't  to  boast  of  it,  you  know.  I  am  nothin^,*^ 
he  said   in  his   effortless   strong  voice,  that   seemed  fm 

[  827  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

comG  out  as  naturally  as  a  river  flows.  He  picked  up  the 
stum^D  of  the  cigar  he  had  laid  aside,  and  added  peace- 
fully, with  a  sHght  nod,  "  As  it  happens,  my  life  is 
necessary ;  it  isn't  my  own,  it  isn't — God  knov/s." 

He  did  not  say  much  for  the  rest  of  the  evening,  but 
several  times  Mr.  Van  Wyk  detected  a  faint  smile  of 
assurance  flitting  under  the  heavy  mustache. 

Later  on  Captain  Whalley  would  now  and  then  consent 
to  dine  "  at  the  house."  He  could  even  be  induced  to 
drink  a  glass  of  wine.  "  Don't  think  I  am  afraid  of  it, 
my  good  sir,"  he  explained.  "  There  was  a  very  good 
reason  why  I  should  give  it  up." 

On  another  occasion,  leaning  back  at  ease,  he  remarked, 
"  You  have  treated  me  most — most  humanely,  my  dear 
Mr.  Van  Wyk,  from  the  very  first." 

"  You'll  admit  there  was  some  merit,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
hinted  slyly.  "  An  associate  of  that  excellent  Massy. 
.  .  .  Well,  well,  my  dear  captain,  I  w^on't  say  a  word 
against  liim." 

"  It  would  be  no  use  your  sa3nng  anything  against 
him,"  Captain  Whalley  affirmed  a  little  moodily.  "  As 
I've  told  you  before,  my  life — my  work,  is  necessary,  not 
for  myself  alone.  I  can't  choose  "...  He  paused, 
turned  the  glass  before  him  right  round.  ..."  I  have 
an  only  child — a  daughter." 

The  ample  downward  sweep  of  his  arm  over  the  table 
seemed  to  suggest  a  small  girl  at  a  vast  distance.  "  I 
hope  to  see  her  once  more  before  I  die.  Meantime  it's 
enough  to  know  that  she  has  me  sound  and  solid,  thank 
God.    You  can't  understand  how  one  feels.    Bone  of  my 

[  328  ] 


I 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

bone,  flesh  of  my  flesh ;  the  very  hnage  of  my  poor  wife. 
Well,  she    .    .    ." 

Again  he  paused,  then  pronounced  stoically  the  words, 
*'  She  has  a  hard  struggle." 

And  his  head  fell  on  his  breast,  his  eyebrows  remained 
knitted,  as  by  an  effort  of  meditation.  But  generally  his 
mind  seemed  steeped  in  the  serenity  of  boundless  trust 
in  a  higher  power.  Mr.  Van  Wyk  wondered  sometimes 
how  much  of  it  was  due  to  the  splendid  vitality  of  the 
man,  to  the  bodily  vigor  which  seems  to  impart  some- 
thing of  its  force  to  the  soul.  But  he  had  learned  to 
like  him  very  much. 

XIII 

This  was  the  reason  why  Mr.  Sterne's  confidential  com- 
munication, delivered  hurriedly  on  the  shore  alongside 
the  dark  silent  ship,  had  disturbed  his  equanimity.  It 
was  the  most  incomprehensible  and  unexpected  thing 
that  could  happen;  and  the  perturbation  of  his  spirit 
was  so  great  that,  forgetting  all  about  his  letters,  he  ran 
rapidly  up  the  bridge  ladder. 

The  portable  table  was  being  put  together  for  dinner 
to  the  left  of  the  wheel  by  two  pig-tailed  "  boys,"  who 
as  usual  snarled  at  each  other  over  the  job,  while  another, 
a  doleful,  burly,  very  yellow  Chinaman,  resembling  Mr. 
Massy,  waited  apathetically  with  the  cloth  over  his  arm 
and  a  pile  of  thick  dinner-plates  against  his  chest.  A 
common  cabin  lamp  with  its  globe  missing,  brought  up 
from  below,  had  been  hooked  to  the  wooden  framework 

[  329  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

of  the  awning;  the  side-screens  had  been  lowered  all 
round ;  Captain  Whalley  filling  the  depths  of  the  wicker- 
chair  seemed  to  sit  benumbed  in  a  canvas  tent  crudely 
lighted,  and  used  for  the  storing  of  nautical  objects;  a 
shabb}'^  steering-wheel,  a  battered  brass  binnacle  on  a 
stout  mahogany  stand,  two  dingy  life-buoys,  an  old  cork 
fender  lying  in  a  corner,  dilapidated  deck-lockers  with 
Joops  of  thin  rope  instead  of  door-handles. 

He  shook  off  the  appearance  of  numbness  to  return 
Mr.  Van  Wyk's  unusually  brisk  greeting,  but  relapsed 
directly  afterwards.  To  accept  a  pressing  invitation  to 
dinner  "  up  at  the  house  "  cost  him  another  A'ery  visible 
physical  effort.  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  perplexed,  folded  his 
arms,  and  leaning  back  against  the  rail,  with  his  little, 
black,  shiny  feet  well  out,  examined  him  covertly. 

*'  I've  noticed  of  late  that  you  are  not  quite  yourself, 
old  friend." 

He  put  an  affectionate  gentleness  into  the  last  two 
words.  The  real  intimacy  of  their  intercourse  had  xiever 
been  so  vividly  expressed  before.  .  j 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!" 

The  wicker-chair  creaked  heavily. 

**  Irritable,"  commented  Mr.  Van  Wyk  to  himself;  and 
aloud,  "  I'll  expect  to  see  you  in  half  an  hour,  then,"  he 
said  negligently,  moving  off. 

"  In  half  an  hour,"  Captain  Whallcy's  rigid  silvery 
head  repeated  behind  him  as  if  out  of  a  trance. 

Amidships,  below,  two  voices,  close  against  the  engine- 
room,  could  be  heard  answering  each  other — one  angry 
and  slow,  the  other  alert. 

[  S30   ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

*'  I  tell  you  the  beast  has  locked  himself  in  to  get 
drunk." 

*  Can't  help  it  new,  Mr.  Mass3^     After  all,  a  man  iias 
a  right  to  shut  himself  up  in  his  cabin  in  his  own  time.'* 

"  Not  to  get  drunk." 

**  I  heard  him  swear  that  the  worry  with  the  boilers 
was  enough  to  drive  any  man  to  drink,"  Sterne  said 
maliciously. 

Massy  hissed  out  something  about  bursting  the  door 
in.  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  to  avoid  them,  crossed  in  the  dark 
to  the  other  side  of  the  deserted  deck.  The  planking 
of  the  little  wharf  rattled  faintly  under  his  hasty  feet. 

"  Mr.  Van  Wyk !    Mr.  Van  Wyk !  " 

He  walked  on:  somebody  was  running  on  the  path. 
*'  You've  forgotten  to  get  your  mail." 

Sterne,  holding  a  bundle  of  papers  in  his  hand,  caught 
up  with  him. 

"  Oh,  thanks." 

But,  as  the  other  continued  at  his  elbow,  Mr.  Van 
Wyk  stopped  short.  The  overhanging  eaves,  descend- 
ing low  upon  the  lighted  front  of  the  bungalow,  threw 
their  black  straight-edged  shadow  into  the  great  body 
of  the  night  on  that  side.  Everything  was  ver}-  still. 
A  tinkle  of  cutlery  and  a  slight  jingle  of  glasses  were 
heard.  Mr.  Van  Wyk's  servants  were  laying  the  table 
for  two  on  the  veranda. 

*'  I'm  afraid  you  give  me  no  credit  whatever  for  my 
good  intentions  in  the  matter  I've  spoken  to  you  about," 
said  Sterne. 

*•  I  simply  don't  understand  you." 

[  331  ] 


THE    END    OF   THE    TETHER 

"  Captain  Whalley  is  a  very  audacious  man,  but  he 
will  understand  that  his  game  is  up.  That's  all  that 
anybody  need  ever  know  of  it  from  me.  Believe  me,  I 
am  very  considerate  in  this,  but  duty  is  duty.  I  don't 
want  to  make  a  fuss.  All  I  ask  you,  as  his  friend,  is 
to  tell  him  from  me  that  the  game's  up.  That  will  be 
sufficient." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  felt  a  loathsome  dismay  at  this  queer 
privilege  of  friendship.  He  v/ould  not  demean  himself 
by  asking  for  the  slightest  explanation;  to  drive  the 
other  away  with  contumely  he  did  not  think  prudent — 
as  yet,  at  any  rate.  So  much  assurance  staggered  him. 
Who  could  tell  what  there  could  be  in  it,  he  thought.? 
His  regard  for  Captain  Whalley  had  the  tenacity  of 
a  disinterested  sentiment,  and  his  practical  instinct  com- 
ing to  his  aid,  he  concealed  his  scorn. 

"  I  gather,  then,  that  this  is  something  grave." 

"  Very  grave,"  Sterne  assented  solemnly,  delighted  at 
having  produced  an  effect  at  last.  He  was  ready  to  add 
some  effusive  protestations  of  regret  at  the  "  unavoida- 
ble necessity,"  but  Mr.  Van  Wyk  cut  him  short — very 
civilly,  however. 

Once  on  the  veranda  Mr.  Van  Wyk  put  his  liands  in  his 
pockets,  and,  straddling  his  legs,  stared  dov/n  at  a 
black  panther  skin  lying  on  the  floor  before  a  rocking- 
chair.  "  It  looks  as  if  the  fellow  had  not  the  pluck 
to  play  his  own  precious  game  openly,"  he  thought. 

This  was  true  enough.  In  the  face  of  Massy's  last 
rebuiT  Sterne  dared  not  declare  his  knowledge.  His 
object  was  simply  to   get   charge  of  the   steamer  and 

[  332  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

keep  it  for  some  time.  Massy  would  never  forgive  him 
for  forcing  himself  on;  but  if  Captain  Whallej  left 
the  ship  of  his  own  accord,  the  command  would  devolve 
upon  him  for  the  rest  of  the  trip;  so  he  hit  upon  the 
brilliant  idea  of  scaring  the  old  man  away.  A  vague 
menace,  a  mere  hint,  would  be  enough  in  such  a  brazen 
case;  and,  with  a  strange  admixture  of  compassion,  he 
thought  that  Batu  Beru  was  a  very  good  place  for 
throwing  up  the  sponge.  The  skipper  could  go  ashore 
quietly,  and  stay  with  that  Dutchman  of  his.  Weren't 
these  two  as  thick  as  thieves  together  .^^  And  on  reflec- 
tion he  seemed  to  see  that  there  was  a  way  to  work  the 
whole  thing  through  that  great  friend  of  the  old  man's. 
This  was  another  brilliant  idea.  He  had  an  inborn 
preference  for  circuitous  methods.  In  this  particular 
case  he  desired  to  remain  in  the  background  as  much 
as  possible,  to  avoid  exasperating  Massy  needlessly. 
No  fuss !     Let  it  all  happen  naturally. 

jMr.  Van  Wyk  all  through  the  dinner  was  conscious 
of  a  sense  of  isolation  that  invades  sometimes  the  close- 
ness of  human  intercourse.  Captain  Whalley  failed 
lamentably  and  obviously  in  his  attempts  to  eat  some- 
thing. He  seemed  overcome  by  a  strange  absent- 
mindedness.  Hie  hand  v/ould  hover  irresolutely,  as  if 
left  without  guidance  by  a  preoccupied  mind.  Mr.  Van 
W3^k  had  heard  him  coming  up  from  a  long  way  off  in 
the  profound  stillness  of  the  river-side,  and  had  noticed 
the  irresolute  character  of  the  footfalls.  The  toe  of  his 
boot  had  struck  the  bottom  stair  as  though  he  had  come 
along  mooning  with  his  head  in  the  air  right  up  to  the 

[  833  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

steps  of  the  veranda.  Had  the  captain  of  the  Sofala 
been  another  sort  of  man  he  would  have  suspected  the 
work  of  age  there.  But  one  glance  at  him  was  enough.  | 
Time — after,  indeed,  marking  him  for  its  own — had 
given  him  up  to  his  usefulness,  in  which  his  simple 
faith  would  see  a  proof  of  Divine  mercy.  "  How  could 
I  contrive  to  warn  him.'*  "  Mr.  Van  Wjk  wondered,  as 
if  Captain  Whalley  had  been  miles  and  miles  away,  out  , 
of  sight  and  earshot  of  all  evil.  He  was  sickened  by  | 
an  immense  disgust  of  Sterne.  To  even  mention  his 
threat  to  a  man  like  Whalley  would  be  positiveh^  inde- 
cent. There  was  something  more  vile  and  insulting  in 
its  hint  than  in  a  definite  charge  of  crime — the  debasing 
taint  of  blackmailing.  "  What  could  anyone  bring 
against  him?  "  he  asked  himself.  This  was  a  limpid 
personality.  "And  for  what  object?"  The  Power 
that  man  trusted  had  thought  fit  to  leave  him  nothing 
on  earth  that  envy  could  lay  hold  of,  except  a  bare  crust 
of  bread. 

"Won't  jcu  try  some  of  this?"  he  asked,  pushing  a 
dish  slightly.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  ^Ir.  Van  Wyk  that 
Sterne  might  possibly  be  coveting  the  command  of  the 
Sofala.  His  cynicism  was  quite  startled  by  what  looked 
like  a  proof  that  no  man  may  count  himself  safe  from 
his  kind  unless  in  the  very  abyss  of  misery.  An  in- 
trigue of  that  sort  was  hardly  worth  troubling  about, 
he  judged;  but  still,  with  such  a  fool  as  ]\fassy  to  deal 
with,  Whalley  ought  to  and  must  be  warned. 

At  this  moment  Captain  Whalley,  bolt  upright,  the 
deep  cavities  of  the  eyes  overhung  by  a  bushy  frown, 

[  S34  ] 


THE    END    OF   THE   TETHER 

*nd  one  large  brown  hand  resting  on  each  side  of  hi» 

flnpt}^  plate,  spoke  jicross  the  tablecloth  abruptly — 

"  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  you've  always  treated  me  with  the 
^ost  humane  consideration." 

"  My  dear  captain,  you  make  too  much  of  the  simple 
fact  that  I  am  not  a  savage."  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  utterly 
revolted  by  the  thought  of  Sterne's  obscure  attempt, 
raised  his  voice  incisively,  as  if  the  mate  had  been  hiding 
somewhere  within  earshot.  "  Any  consideration  I  have 
been  able  to  show  was  no  more  than  the  rightful  due 
of  a  character  I've  learned  to  regard  by  this  time  w^ith 
an  esteem  that  nothing  can  shake." 

A  slight  ring  of  glass  made  hiro  lift  his  eyes  from  the 
slice  of  pine-apple  he  was  cutting  into  small  pieces  on 
his  plate.  In  changing  his  position  Captain  Whalley 
had  contrived  to  upset  an  empty  tumbler. 

Without  looking  that  way,  leaning  sideways  on  his 
elbow,  his  other  hand  shading  his  brow,  he  groped 
shakily  for  it,  then  desisted.  Van  Wyk  stared  blankly, 
as  if  something  momentous  had  happened  all  at  once. 
He  did  not  know  why  he  should  feel  so  startled;  but  he 
forgot  Sterne  utterly  for  the  moment.  , 

"Why,  what's  the  matter?" 

And  Captain  Whalley,  half-averted,  in  a  deadened, 
agitated  voice,  muttered — 

"  Esteem !  " 

"  And  I  ma}^  add  something  more,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk, 
very  steady-eyed,  pronounced  slowly. 

"  Hold !  Enough !  "  Captain  Whalley  did  not 
change  his  attitude  or  raise  his  voice.     "  Say  no  more  I 

[  335  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

I  can  make  you  no  return.  I  am  too  poor  even  for  that 
now.  Your  esteem  is  worth  having.  You  are  not  a 
man  that  would  stoop  to  deceive  the  poorest  sort  of  devil 
on  earth,  or  make  a  ship  unseaworthy  every  time  he 
takes  her  to  sea." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk,  leaning  forward,  his  face  gone  pink 
all  over,  with  the  starched  table-napkin  over  his  knees, 
was  inclined  to  mistrust  his  senses,  his  power  of  com- 
prehension, the  sanity  of  his  guest. 

"Where?  Why?  In  the  name  of  God ! — what's  this? 
What  ship?     I  don't  understand  who    .    .    ." 

"  Then,  in  the  name  of  God,  it  is  I !  A  ship's  unsea- 
worthy when  her  captain  can't  see.     I  am  going  blind." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  made  a  slight  movement,  and  sat  very 
still  afterwards  for  a  few  seconds ;  then,  with  the 
thought  of  Sterne's  "  The  game's  up,"  he  ducked  under 
the  table  to  pick  up  the  napkin  which  had  slipped  off 
his  knees.  This  was  the  game  that  was  up.  And  at 
the  same  time  the  muffled  voice  of  Captain  Whalley 
passed  over  him —  ; 

"  I've  deceived  them  all.     Nobody  knows." 

He  emerged  flushed  to  the  eyes.  Captain  Whalley, 
motionless  under  the  full  blaze  of  the  lamp,  shaded  his 
face  with  his  hand. 

"  And  you  had  that  courage?  " 

"  Call  it  by  what  name  you  like.  But  you  are  a  hu- 
mane m.an — a — a — gentleman,  Mr.  Van  Wyk.  You  may 
have  asked  me  what  I  had  done  with  my  conscience." 

He  seemed  to  muse,  profoundly  silent,  very  still  in  his 
mournful  pose. 

[  336  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  I  began  to  tamper  with  it  in  my  pride.  You  begin 
to  see  a  lot  of  tilings  when  you  are  going  blind.  I 
could  not  be  frank  with  an  old  chum  even.  I  was  not 
frank  with  Massy — no,  not  altogether.  I  knew  he  took 
me  for  a  wealthy  sailor  fool,  and  I  let  him.  I  wanted 
to  keep  up  my  importance — because  there  was  poor  Ivy 
ftway  there — my  daughter.  What  did  I  want  to  trade 
on  his  misery  for.?  I  did  trade  on  it — for  her.  And 
now,  what  mercy  could  I  expect  from  him?  He  would 
trade  on  mine  if  he  knew  it.  He  would  hunt  the  old 
fraud  out,  and  stick  to  the  monc}^  for  a  year.  Ivy's 
money.  And  I  haven't  kept  a  penny  for  myself.  How 
am  I  going  to  live  for  a  year.  A  year !  In  a  3^ear  there 
will  be  no  sun  in  the  sky  for  her  father." 

His  deep  voice  came  out,  a^^ully  veiled,  as  though 
he  had  been  overw^helmed  by  the  earth  of  a  landslide, 
and  talking  of  the  thoughts  that  haunt  the  dead  in 
their  graves.  A  cold  shudder  ran  down  IMr.  Van  Wyk's 
back. 

"  And  how  long  is  it  since  you  have  .  .  .  .^^ "  he 
began. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  before  I  could  bring  myself  to 
believe     in    this — this — visitation."      Captain    Whalley 
1  spoke  with  gloomy  patience  from  under  his  hand. 

He  had  not  thought  he  had  deserved  it.  He  had  begun 
by  deceiving  him.self  from  day  to  day,  from  week  to 
week.  He  had  the  Serang  at  hand  there — an  old 
servant.  It  came  on  gradually,  and  when  he  could  no 
longer  deceive  himself   .    .    . 

His  voice  died  out  almost. 

[  SS7  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

**  Rather  than  give  her  up  I  set  myself  to  deceive 
you  all." 

"  It's  incredible,"  whispered  Mr.  Van  Wyk.  Captain 
Whallcy's  appalling  murmur  flowed  on. 

*'  Not  even  the  sign  of  God's  anger  could  make  me 
forget  her.  How  could  I  forsake  m^^  child,  feeling  my 
vigor  all  the  time — the  blood  warm  within  me?  Warm 
as  yours.  It  seems  to  me  that,  like  the  blinded  Samson, 
I  would  find  the  strength  to  shake  down  a  temple  upon 
my  head.  She's  a  struggling  woman — my  own  child 
that  we  used  to  pray  over  together,  my  poor  wife  and  I. 
Do  you  remember  that  day  I  as  well  as  told  you 
that  I  believed  God  would  let  me  live  to  a  hundred  for 
her  sake?  What  sin  is  there  in  loving  your  child.'*  Do 
you  see  it.'^  I  was  ready  for  her  sake  to  live  for  ever. 
I  half  believed  I  would.  I've  been  praying  for  death 
since.  Ha!  Presumptuous  man — you  wanted  to 
live    .    .    ." 

A  tremendous,  shuddering  upheaval  of  that  big  frame, 
shaken  by  a  gasping  sob,  set  tlie  glasses  jingling  all 
over  the  table,  seemed  to  make  the  w^hole  house  tremble 
to  the  roof -tree.     And  Mr.  Van  W3^k,  whose  feeling  of 
outraged  love  had  been  translated  into  a  form  of  strug- 
gle with  nature,  understood  very  well  that,  for  that  man 
\  whose  whole  life  had  been  conditioned  by  action,  there 
1,  could  exist  no  other  expression  for  all  the  emotions ;  that, 
\  to  voluntarily  cease  venturing,  doing,  enduring,  for  his 
child's  sake,  would  have  been  exactly  like  plucking  his 
I  warm  love  for  her  out  of  his  living  heart.     Something 
/too  monstrous,  too  impossible,  even  to  conceive. 

\  368  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE    TETHER 

Captain  Whalley  had  not  changed  his  attitude,  thr.i: 
seemed    to    express    something    of    shame,    sorrow,    and 

defiance. 

"  I  have  even  deceived  jou.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
that  word  '  esteem.'  These  are  not  the  words  for  me. 
I  would  have  hed  to  3^ou.  Haven't  I  lied  to  you? 
Weren't  you  going  to  trust  your  propert}^  on  board  this 
very  trip  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  floating  yearly  policy,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk  said 
almost  unwittingly,  and  was  amazed  at  the  sudden  crop- 
ping up  of  a  commercial  detail. 

"  The  ship   is   unseaworthy,   I  tell  you.      The   policy 
would  be  invalid  if  it  were  known   .    .    ." 
"  We  shall  share  the  guilt,  then." 

"  Nothing  could  make  mine  less,"  said  Captain 
Whalley. 

He  had  not  dared  to  consult  a  doctor;  the  man  would 
have  perhaps  asked  who  he  was,  what  he  was  doing; 
Massy  might  have  heard  something.  He  had  lived  on 
without  an}"  help,  human  or  divine.  The  very  pra3^ers 
stuck  in  his  throat.  What  was  there  to  pray  for.''  and 
death  seemed  as  far  as  ever.  Once  he  got  into  his  cabin 
he  dared  not  come  out  again ;  when  he  sat  down  he  dared 
not  get  up;  he  dared  not  raise  liis  eyes  to  anybody's 
face ;  he  felt  reluctant  to  look  upon  the  sea  or  up  to 
the  sky.  The  world  was  fading  before  his  great  fear 
of  giving  himself  away.  The  old  ship  was  his  last 
friend;  he  was  not  afraid  of  lier;  he  knew  every  inch 
of  her  deck ;  but  at  her  too  he  hardly  dared  to  look,  for 
fear  of  finding  he  could  see  less  than  the  day  before. 

[  3S9  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

A  great  incertitude  enveloped  him.  The  horizon  was 
gone;  the  skj  mingled  darkly  with  the  sea.  Who  was 
this  figure  standing  over  yonder  .^  what  was  this  thing 
lying  down  there?  And  a  frightful  doubt  of  the  reality 
of  what  he  could  see  made  even  the  remnant  of  sight 
that  remained  to  him  an  added  torment,  a  pitfall  always 
open  for  his  miserable  pretense.  He  w^as  afraid  to 
stumble  inexcusably  over  something — to  say  a  fatal  Yes 
or  No  to  a  question.  The  hand  of  God  was  upon  him, 
but  it  could  not  tear  him  aw^ay  from  his  child.  And, 
as  if  in  a  nightmare  of  humiliation,  every  featureless 
man  seemed  an  enemj^ 

He  let  his  hand  fall  heavily  on  the  table.  Mr.  Van 
Wyk,  arms  down,  chin  on  breast,  with  a  gleam  of  white 
teeth  pressing  on  the  lower  lip,  meditated  on  Sterne's 
"  The  game's  up." 

"  The  Serang  of  course  does  not  know." 

"  Nobody,"  said  Captain  Whalley,  with  assurance. 

"  Ah  yes.  Nobody.  Very  w^ell.  Can  you  keep  it  up 
to  the  end  of  the  trip  ?  That  is  the  last  under  the  agree- 
ment with  Massy." 

Captain  Whalley  got  up  and  stood  erect,  very  stately, 
with  the  great  white  beard  lying  like  a  silver  breastplate 
over  the  awful  secret  of  his  heart.  Yes;  that  was  the 
only  hope  there  was  for  him  of  ever  seeing  her  again, 
of  securing  the  money,  the  last  he  could  do  for  her, 
before  he  crept  away  somewhere — useless,  a  burden,  a 
reproach  to  himself.     His  voice  faltered. 

"  Think  of  it !  Never  see  her  any  more :  the  only 
human  being  besides  myself  now  on  earth  that  can  re- 

[  340  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

member  my  wife.     She's  just  like  her  mother.     Lucky 
the  poor  woman  is  where  there  are  no  tears  shed  over 
those  they  loved  on  earth  and  that  remain  to  pray  not 
to    be    led    into    temptation — because,    I    suppose,    the 
blessed  know  the  secret  of  grace  in  God's  dealings  with 
His  created  children." 
He  swayed  a  little,  said  with  austere  dignity — 
"  I  don't.     I  know  only  the  child  He  has  given  me." 
And  he  began  to  walk.     Mr.  Van  Wyk,  jumping  up, 
saw  the  full  meaning  of  the  rigid  head,  the  hesitating 
feet,  the  vaguely  extended  hand.     His  heart  was  beat- 
ing fast;  he  m.oved  a  chair  aside,  and  instinctively  ad- 
vanced as  if  to  offer  his  arm.     But  Captain  Whalley 
passed  him  by,  making  for  the  stairs  quite  straight. 

"  He  could  not  see  me  at  all  out  of  his  line,"  Van  Wyk 
thought,  with  a  sort  of  awe.     Then  going  to  the  head 
of  the  stairs,  he  asked  a  little  tremulously — 
"  VV^hat  is  it  like— like  a  mist— like   .    .    ." 
Captain  Whalley,  half-way  down,  stopped,  and  turned 
round  undismayed  to  answer. 

"  It  is  as  if  the  light  Avere  ebbing  out  of  the  world. 
Have  you  ever  watched  the  ebbing  sea  on  an  open 
stretch  of  sands  withdravring  farther  and  farther  av;ay 
from  you.'^  It  is  like  this — only  there  will  be  no  flood 
to  follow.  Never.  It  is  as  if  the  sun  were  growing 
smaller,  the  stars  going  out  one  by  one.  There  can't  be 
many  left  that  I  can  see  by  this.  But  I  haven't  had  the 
courage  to  look  of  late  .  .  ."  He  must  have  been  able 
to  make  out  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  because  he  checked  him  by 
an  authoritative  gesture  and  a  stoical — 

[  S41   ] 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER 

"I  can  get  about  alone  yet." 

It  was  as  if  he  had  taken  his  line,  and  would  accept 
no  help  from  men,  after  having  been  cast  out,  like  a 
presumptuous  Titan,  from  his  heaven.  Mr.  Van  Wyk, 
arrested,  seemed  to  count  the  footsteps  right  out  of 
earshot.  He  walked  between  the  tables,  tapping 
smartly  with  his  heels,  took  up  a  paper-knife,  dropped 
it  after  a  vague  glance  along  the  blade;  then  hap- 
pening upon  the  piano,  struck  a  few  chords  standing 
up  before  the  keyboard  with  an  attentive  poise  of 
the  head  like  a  piano-tuner;  closing  it,  he  pivoted 
on  his  heels  brusquely,  avoided  the  little  terrier 
sleeping  trustfully  on  crossed  forepaws,  came  upon  the 
stairs  next,  and,  as  though  he  had  lost  his  balance  on 
the  top  step,  ran  down  headlong  out  of  the  house.  His 
servants,  beginning  to  clear  the  table,  heard  him  mutter 
to  himself  (evil  words  no  doubt)  down  there,  and  tlien 
after  a  pause  go  away  with  a  strolling  gait  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  wharf. 

The  bulwarks  of  the  Sofala  l3^ing  alongside  the  bank 
made  a  low,  black  wall  on  the  undulating  contour  qfjthe 
shore.  Two  masts  and  a  funnel  uprose  from  beh'ifli  it 
with  a  great  rake,  as  if  about  to  fall:  a  solid,  sflliaro 
elevation  in  the  middle  bore  the  ghostly  shapes  of  ^^hite 
boats,  the  curves  of  davits,  lines  of  rail  and  stanchions, 
all  confused  and  mingling  darkly  ever3^where ;  but  low 
down,  amidships,  a  single  lighted  port  stared  out  on 
tt»e  night,  perfectly  round,  like  a  small,  full  moon, 
whose  yellow  beam  caught  a  patch  of  wet  mud,  the 
edcre    of    trodden    grass,    two    turns    of    heavy    cable 

[  342  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

wound  round  the  foot  of  a  thick  wooden  post  in  the 
ground. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk,  peering  alongside,  heard  a  muzzy 
boastful  voice  apparently  jeering  at  a  person  called 
Prendergast.  It  mouthed  abuse  thickly,  choked;  then 
pronounced  very  distinctly  the  word  "  Murphy,"  and 
chuckled.  Glass  tinkled  tremulously.  All  these  sounds 
came  from  the  lighted  port.  Mr.  Van  Wyk  hesitated, 
stooped:  it  was  impossible  to  look  through  unless  be 
went  down  into  the  mud. 

"  Sterne,"  he  said,  half  aloud. 

The  drunken  voice  within  said  gladly — 

"  Sterne — of  course.  Look  at  him  blink.  Look  at 
him !  Sterne,  Whalley,  Massy.  Massy,  Whalley, 
Sterne.  But  Massy's  the  best.  You  can't  come  over 
him.     He  would  just  love  to  see  you  starve." 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  moved  away,  made  out  farther  forward 
a  shadow}^  head  stuck  out  from  under  the  awnings  as 
if  on  the  watch,  and  spoke  quietly  in  Malay,  "  Is  the 
mate  asleep  ?  " 

"  No.     Here,  at  your  service." 

In  »a  moment  Sterne  appeared,  walking  as  noiselessly 
as  a  'eat  on  the  wharf. 

"  It's  so  joll}^  dark,  and  I  had  no  idea  you  would  he 
down  to-night." 

"What's  this  horrible  raving.?"  asked  Mr.  Van  Wyk, 
as  if  to  explain  the  cause  of  a  shudder  that  ran  over 
him  audibly. 

"  Jack's  broken  out  on  a  drunk.  That's  our  second. 
It's  his  way.     He  will  be  right  enough  by  to-morrow 

[   343   1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

afternoon,  only  Mr.  Massy  will  keep  on  worrying  up 
and  down  the  deck.     We  had  better  get  away." 

He  muttered  suggestively  of  a  talk  "  up  at  the  house." 
He  had  long  desired  to  effect  an  entrance  there,  but  Mr. 
Van  Wyk  nonchalantly  demurred:  it  would  not,  he 
feared,  be  quite  prudent,  perhaps ;  and  the  opaque 
black  shadow  under  one  of  the  two  big  trees  left  at  the 
landing-place  swallowed  them  up,  impenetrabl}^  dense, 
by  the  side  of  the  wide  river,  that  seemed  to  spin  into 
threads  of  glitter  the  light  of  a  few  big  stars  dropped 
here  and  there  upon  its  outspread  and  flowing  stillness. 

'^  The  situation  is  grave  beyond  doubt,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
said.  Ghost-like  in  their  white  clothes  they  could  not 
distinguish  each  others'  features,  and  their  feet  made 
no  sound  on  the  soft  earth.  A  sort  of  purring  was 
heard.     Mr.  Sterne  felt  gratified  by  such  a  beginning. 

"  I  thought,  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  a  gentleman  of  your  sort 
would  see  at  once  how  awkwardly  I  was  situated." 

*'  Yes,  very.  Obviously  his  health  is  bad.  Perhaps 
he's  breaking  up.  I  see,  and  he  himself  is  well  aware — 
I  assume  I  am  speaking  to  a  man  of  sense — he  is  well 
aware  that  his  legs  are  giving  out." 

"  His  legs — ah !  "  Mr.  Sterne  was  disconcerted,  and 
then  turned  sulk}^  "  You  may  call  it  his  legs  if  3'ou 
like ;  what  I  want  to  knov/  is  whether  he  intends  to  clear 
out  quietly.  That's  a  good  one,  too!  His  legs! 
Pooh !  " 

"  Why,  yes.  Only  look  at  the  way  he  walks."  Mr. 
Van  Wyk  took  him  up  in  a  perfectly  cool  and  undoubt- 
ing  tone.      "  The   question,   however,   is   whether  your 

[  344  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

scFxSe  of  duty  does  not  carry  you  too  far  from  your  true 
interest.  After  all,  I  too  could  do  something  to  serve 
you.  You  know  who  I  am." 
"  Everybody  along  the  Straits  has  heard  of  you,  sir."" 
Mr.  ^'an  Wyk  presumed  that  this  meant  something 
fa^^orable.  Sterne  had  a  soft  laugh  at  this  pleasantry. 
He  should  think  so!  To  the  opening  statement,  that 
the  partnership  agreement  was  to  expire  at  the  end  of 
this  very  trip,  he  gave  an  attentive  assent.  He  was 
aware.  One  heard  of  nothing  else  on  board  all  the 
blessed  day  long.  As  to  Massy,  it  was  no  secret  that  he 
was  in  a  jolly  deep  hole  with  these  worn-out  boilers. 
He  would  have  to  borrow  somewhere  a  couple  of  hun- 
dred first  of  all  to  pay  off  the  captain;  and  then  he 
would  have  to  raise  money  on  mortgage  upon  the  ship 
for  the  new  boilers — that  is,  if  he  could  find  a  lender  at 
all.  At  best  it  meant  loss  of  time,  a  break  in  the  trade, 
short  earnings  for  the  year — and  there  was  always  the 
danger  of  having  his  connection  filched  away  from  him 
by  the  Germans.  It  was  whispered  about  that  he  had 
already  tried  two  firms.  Neither  would  have  anything 
to  do  with  him..  Ship  too  old,  and  the  man  too  well 
known  in  the  place.  .  .  .  Mr.  Sterne's  final  rapid  wink- 
ing remained  buried  in  the  deep  darkness  sibilating  with 
his  whispers. 

"  Supposing,  then,  he  got  the  loan,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
resumed  in  a  deliberate  undertone,  "  on  your  own  show- 
ing he's  more  than  likely  to  get  a  mortgagee's  man 
thrust  upon  him  as  captain.  For  my  part,  I  know  that 
I  would  make  that  very  stipulation  myself  if  I  had  to 

[  345   ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

find  the  money.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  am  thiiiking 
of  doing  so.  It  would  be  worth  mj  while  in  many  ways* 
Do  you  see  how  this  would  bear  on  the  case  under  dis- 
cussion? " 

"  Thank  you,  sir.  I  am  sure  you  couldn't  get  any- 
body that  would  care  more  for  ^our  interests." 

"  Well,  it  suits  ni}^  interest  that  Captain  WhaHe't 
should  finish  his  time.  I  shall  probably  take  a  passage 
with  you  dow^n  the  Straits.  If  that  can  be  done,  I'il  he 
on  the  spot  when  all  these  changes  take  place,  and  in  a 
position  to  look  after  your  interests." 

"  Mr.  Van  Wyk,  I  want  notliing  better.  I  am  sure 
I  am  infinitely    .    .    ." 

"  I  take  it,  then,  that  this  may  be  done  without  any 
trouble." 

"  Well,  sir,  what  risk  there  is  can't  be  helped ;  but 
(speaking  to  you  as  my  employer  now)  the  thing  is 
more  safe  than  it  looks.  If  an3'body  had  told  m.e  of  it 
I  wouldn't  have  believed  it,  but  I  have  been  looking  on 
myself.  That  old  Serang  has  been  trained  up  to  the 
game.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  his — ^his — 
limbs,  sir.  He's  got  used  to  things  on  his  own  in  a 
remarkable  way.  And  let  me  tell  you,  sir,  that  Cap- 
tain Whalley,  poor  man,  is  b}'^  no  means  useless.  Fact. 
Let  me  explain  to  you,  sir.  He  stiffens  up  that  old 
monkey  of  a  Malay,  who  knows  well  enough  what  to  do. 
Why,  he  must  have  kept  captain's  watches  in  all  sorts  of 
country  ships  off  and  on  for  the  last  five-and-twenty 
years.  These  natives,  sir,  as  long  as  the}^  have  a  white 
man  close  at  the  back,  will  go  on  doing  the  right  thing 

r  S46  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

rtiost  surprisingly  well — even  if  left  quite  to  themselves. 
Only  the  white  man  n\ust  be  of  the  sort  to  put  starch 
into  them,  and  the  captain  is  just  the  one  for  that. 
Wliy,  sir,  he  has  drilled  him  so  well  that  now  he  needs 
liardly  speak  at  all.  I  have  seen  that  little  wrinkled 
ape  made  to  take  the  ship  out  of  Pangu  Bay  on  a 
blow}^  morning  and  on  all  through  the  islands ;  take 
her  out  first-rate,  sir,  dodging  under  the  old  man's 
elbow,  and  in  such  quiet  style  that  you  could  not  have 
told  for  the  life  of  you  which  of  the  two  was  doing  the 
work  up  there.  That's  M'here  our  poor  friend  would  be 
still  of  use  to  the  ship  even  if — if — he  could  no  longer 
lift  a  foot,  sir.  Provided  the  Serang  does  not  know 
that  there's  anything  wrong." 

"  He  doesn't." 

"  Naturally  not.  Quite  beyond  his  apprehension. 
They  aren't  capable  of  finding  out  anything  about  us, 
sir." 

"  You  seem  to  be  a  shrewd  man,"  said  INIr.  Van  Wyk 
in  a  choked  m.utter,  as  though  he  were  feeling  sick. 

"  You'll  find  me  a  good  enough  servant,  sir." 

Mr.  Sterne  hoped  now  for  a  handshake  at  least,  but 
unexpectedly,  with  a  "What's  this.?  Better  not  to  be 
seen  together,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk's  white  shape  wavered, 
and  instantly  seemed  to  melt  away  in  the  black  air  under 
the  roof  of  boughs.  The  mate  was  startled.  Yes. 
There  was  that  faint  thumping  clatter. 

He  stole  out  silently  from  under  the  shade.  The 
lighted  port -hole  shone  from  afar.  His  head  swam  with 
the  intoxication   of  sudden  success.     What  a  thing  it 

[  3*7  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

was  to  have  a  gentleman  to  deal  v.ith !  He  crept  aboard, 
and  there  was  something  weird  in  the  shadowy  stretch 
of  empty  decks,  echoing  with  shouts  and  blows  proceed- 
ing from  a  darker  part  amidships.  Mr.  Mass}-  was 
raging  before  the  door  of  the  berth:  the  drunken  voice 
within  flowed  on  undisturbed  in  the  violent  racket  of 
kicks. 

"  Shut  up !  Put  your  light  out  and  turn  in,  you 
confounded  swilling  pig — you !  D'you  hear  me,  you 
beast?" 

The  kicking  stopped,  and  in  the  prase  the  muzzy 
oracular  voice  announced  from  within — 

"  Ah !  Massy,  now — that's  another  thing.  Massy's 
deep." 

"Who's  that  aft  there.?  You,  Sterne.?  He'll  drink 
himself  into  a  fit  of  horrors."  The  clAc2  engineer  ap- 
peared vague  and  big  at  the  corner  of  the  engine- 
room  skylight. 

'•  He  will  be  good  enough  for  duty  to-morrow.  I  would 
let  him  be,  Mr.  Massy." 

Sterne  slipped  away  into  his  berth,  and  at  once  had 
to  sit  dcY/n.  His  head  swam  with  exultation.  He  got 
into  liis  bunk  as  if  in  a  dream.  A  feeling  of  profound 
peace,  of  pacific  joy,  came  over  him.  On  deck  all  was 
quiet. 

]Mr.  jMassy,  with  his  ear  against  the  door  of  Jack's 
cabin,  listened  critically  to  a  deep  stertorous  breathing 
within.  This  was  a  dead-drunk  sleep.  The  bout  was 
over:  tranquilized  on  that  score,  he  too  went  in,  and 
with  slow  wriggles  got  out  of  his  old  tweed  jacket.     It 

f  348  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

was  a  garment  with  many  pockets,  which  he  used  to  put 
en  al:  odd  times  of  the  day,  being  subject  to  sudden 
chill}"  fits,  and  when  he  felt  warmed  he  would  take  it  oi? 
and  hang  it  about  anyv/here  all  over  the  ship.  It  would 
be  seen  swinging  on  beiaying-pins,  thrown  over  the 
heads  of  winches,  suspended  on  people's  very  door- 
handles for  that  matter.  Was  he  not  the  owner.?  But 
his  favorite  place  was  a  hook  on  a  wooden  awning 
stanchion  on  the  bridge,  almost  against  the  binnacle. 
He  had  even  in  the  early  days  more  than  one  tussle  on 
tliat  point  vrith  Captain  Whalley,  who  desired  the 
bridge  to  be  kept  tidy.  He  had  been  overawed  then. 
Of  late,  though,  he  had  been  able  to  defy  his  partner 
with  impunity.  Captain  Wlialley  never  seemed  to 
notice  anything  now.  As  to  the  Malays,  in  their  awe 
of  that  scowling  man  not  one  of  the  crew  would  dream 
of  laying  a  hand  on  the  thing,  no  matter  where  or  what 
it  svrung  from. 

With  an  unexpectedness  which  made  Mr.  Massy  jump 
and  drop  the  coat  at  his  feet,  there  came  from  the  next 
berth  the  crash  and  thud  of  a  headlong,  jingling,  clat- 
tering fall.  The  faithful  Jack  miust  have  dropped  to 
sleep  suddenly  as  he  sat  at  his  revels,  and  now  had 
gone  over  chair  and  all,  breaking,  as  it  seem.ed  by  the 
sound,  ever}^  single  glass  and  bottle  in  the  place.  After 
tlie  terrific  smash  all  was  still  for  a  time  in  there,  as 
though  he  had  killed  himself  on  the  spot.  Mr. 
I^Jassy  held  his  breath.  At  last  a  sleepy  uneasy  groan- 
ing sigh  was  exhaled  slowly  on  the  other  side  of  the 
bulkhead. 

[  349  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE    TETHER 

"  I  hope  to  goodness  he's  too  drunk  to  wake  up  now,'' 
muttered  Mr.  Massy. 

The  sound  of  a  softly  knowing  laugh  nearly  drove 
him  to  despair.  He  swore  violently  under  his  breath. 
The  fool  would  keep  him  awake  all  night  now  for  cer- 
tain. He  cursed  his  luck.  He  wanted  to  forget  his 
maddening  troubles  in  sleep  sometimes.  He  could  detect 
no  movements.  Without  apparently  making  the  slight- 
est attempt  to  get  up,  Jack  vrent  on  sniggering  to  him- 
self where  he  lay ;  then  began  to  speak,  where  he  had 
left  off  as  it  were — 

"  Massy !  I  love  the  dirty  rascal.  He  would  like  to 
see  his  poor  old  Jack  starve — but  just  3^ou  look  where 
he  has  climbed  to."  .  .  .  He  hiccoughed  in  a  superior, 
leisurely  manner.  ..."  Ship-owning  it  with  the  best. 
A  lottery  ticket  you  want.  Ha!  ha!  I  will  give  you 
lottery  tickets,  my  boy.  Let  the  old  ship  sink  and  tlie 
old  chum  starve — that's  right.  He  don't  go  wrong — - 
Massy  don't.  Not  he.  He's  a  genius — that  man  is. 
That's  the  way  to  Avin  your  money.  Ship  and  chum 
must  go." 

"  The  silly  fool  has  taken  it  to  heart,"  muttered  Massy 
to  himself.  And,  listening  with  a  softened  expression 
of  face  for  any  slight  sign  of  returning  drowsiness,  lie 
was  discouraged  profoundly  by  a  burst  of  laughter  full 
of  joyful  irony. 

"  Would  like  to  see  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea !  Oh, 
you  clever,  clever  devil!  Wish  her  sunk,  eh?  I  should 
think  you  would,  my  boy :  the  damned  old  thing  and 
all  your  troubles  with  her.     Rake  in  the  insurance  money 

r  350  ] 


THE    END    OF    THE    TETHER 
^turn  your  back  on  jour  old  chum — all's  well — gentle- 
man  again." 

A  grim  stillness  had  come  over  Massy's  face.  Only 
his  big  black  eyes  rolled  uneasily.  The  raving  fool. 
And  3^et  it  was  all  true.  Yes.  Lottery  tickets,  too. 
All  true.  What.?  Beginning  again?  He  wished  he 
wouldn't.    .    .    . 

But  it  was  even  so.  The  imaginative  drunkard  on 
the  other  side  of  the  bulkhead  shook  off  the  deatlilike 
stillness  that  after  his  last  words  had  fallen  on  the  dark 
ship  moored  to  a  silent  shore. 

"  Don't  you  dare  to  say  anything  against  George 
IVIassy,  Esquire.  When  he's  tired  of  waiting  he  will  do 
away  with  her.  Look  out !  Down  she  goes — chum  and 
all.  "^  He'll  know  how  to    .    .    ." 

The  voice  hesitated,  weary,  dreamy,  lost,  as  if  dying 
away  in  a  vast  open  space. 

'*.  .  .  Find  a  trick  that  will  work.  He's  up  to  it — 
never  fear   .    .    ." 

He  must  have  been  very  drunk,  for  at  last  the  heavy 
sleep  gripped  him  witli  the  suddenness  of  a  magic  spell, 
and  the  last  word  lengthened  itself  into  an  interminable, 
noisy,  in-drawn  snore.  And  then  even  the  snoring 
stopped,  and  all  was  still. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  ]Mr.  Massy  had  suddenly  come 
to  doubt  the  efficacy  of  sleep  as  against  a  man's  troubles : 
or  perhaps  he  had  found  the  relief  he  needed  in  the 
stillness  of  a  calm  contemplation  that  may  contain  the 
vivid  thoughts  of  wealth,  of  a  stroke  of  luck,  of  long 
idleness,  and  may  bring  before  you  the  imagined  form 

r   351   ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

of  every  desire;  for,  turning  about  and  throwing  his 
arms  over  the  edge  of  his  bunk,  he  stood  there  with  his 
feet  on  his  favorite  old  coat,  looking  out  through  the 
round  port  into  the  night  over  the  river.  Sometimes 
a  breath  of  wind  would  enter  and  touch  his  face,  a  cool 
breath  charged  vv^ith  the  damp,  fresh  feel  from  a  vast 
body  of  w^ater.  A  glimmer  here  and  there  was  all  he 
could  see  of  it;  and  once  he  might  after  all  suppose  he 
had  dozed  off,  since  there  appeared  before  his  vision, 
unexpectedly  and  connected  with  no  dream,  a  row  cf 
flaming  and  gigantic  figures — three  nought  seven  one 
two — making  up  a  number  such  as  you  may  see  on  a 
lottery  ticket.  And  then  all  at  once  the  port  was  no 
longer  black:  it  was  pearl}-  gray,  framing  a  shcre 
crowded  with  houses,  thatched  roof  beyond  thatched 
roof,  walls  of  mats  and  bamboo,  gables  of  carv^ed  teak 
timber.  Rows  of  dwellings  raised  on  a  forest  of  piles 
lined  the  steely  band  of  the  river,  brimful  and  still,  with 
the  tide  on  the  turn.  This  was  Batu  Beru — and  the 
day  had  come. 

Mr.  Massy  shook  himself,  put  on  the  tweed  coat,  and, 
shivering  nervously  as  if  from  some  great  shock,  made 
a  note  of  the  number.  A  fortunate,  rare  hint  that. 
Yes;  but  to  pursue  fortune  one  wanted  money — read}^ 
cash. 

Then  he  went  out  and  prepared  to  descend  into  the 
engine-room.  Several  small  job?  had  to  be  seen  to,  and 
Jack  was  lying  dead  drunk  on  the  floor  of  his  cabin, 
with  the  door  locked  at  that.  His  gorge  rose  at  the 
thought  of  work.    Ay !    But  if  you  wanted  to  do  noth- 

[  352  1 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER 

ing  you  had  to  get  first  a  good  bit  of  money.  A  ship 
won't  save  you.  True,  all  true.  He  was  tired  of 
waiting  for  some  chance  that  would  rid  him  at  last  of 
that  ship  that  had  turned  out  a  curse  on  his  life. 


XIV 

The  deep,  interminable  hoot  of  the  steam-whistle  had, 
in  its  grave,  vibrating  note,  something  intolerable, 
which  sent  a  slight  shudder  down  Mr,  Van  Wyk's  back. 
It  was  the  early  afternoon ;  the  Sofala  was  leaving  Batu 
Beru  for  Pangu,  the  next  place  of  call.  She  swung  in 
the  stream,  scantily  attended  by  a  few  canoes,  and,  glid- 
ing on  the  broad  river,  became  lost  to  view  from  the 
Van  Wyk  bungalow. 

Its  owner  had  not  gone  this  time  to  see  her  off.  Gen- 
erally he  came  down  to  the  wharf,  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  the  bridge  while  she  cast  off,  and  waved  his 
hand  to  Captain  Whalley  at  the  last  moment.  This  day 
he  did  not  even  go  as  far  as  the  balustrade  of  the 
veranda.  "  He  couldn't  see  me  if  I  did,"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  I  wonder  whether  Ixf  can  make  out  the  house 
at  all."  And  this  thought  somehow  made  him  feel  more 
alone  than  he  had  ever  felt  for  all  these  years.  What 
was  it.''  six  or  seven .^     Seven.     A  long  time. 

He  sat  on  the  veranda  with  a  closed  book  on  his  knee, 
and,  as  it  were,  looked  out  upon  his  solitude,  as  if  the 
fact  of  Captain  Whalley's  blindness  had  opened  his 
e3^es  to  his  own.     There  were  many  sorts  of  heartaches 

[  353  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

and  troubles,  and  there  was  no  place  where  they  could 
not  find  a  man  out.  And  he  felt  ashamed,  as  though 
he  had  for  six  years  behaved  like  a  peevish  boy. 

His  thought  followed  the  Sofala  on  her  way.  On  the 
spur  of  the  moment  he  had  acted  impulsively,  turning 
to  the  thing  most  pressing.  And  what  else  could  he 
have  done.^  Later  on  he  should  see.  It  seemed  neces- 
sary that  he  should  come  out  into  the  world,  for  a  time 
at  least.  He  had  money — something  could  be  ar- 
ranged ;  he  would  grudge  no  time,  no  trouble,  no  loss 
of  his  solitude.  It  weighed  on  him  now — and  Captain 
Whalley  appeared  to  him  as  he  had  sat  shading  his 
eyes,  as  if,  being  deceived  in  the  trust  of  his  faith,  be 
v/ere  bej^ond  all  the  good  and  evil  that  can  be  wrought 
by  the  hands  of  men. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk's  thoughts  followed  the  Sofala  down  the 
river,  winding  about  through  the  belt  of  the  coast  forest, 
between  the  buttressed  shafts  of  the  big  trees,  through 
the  mangrove  strip,  and  over  the  bar.  The  ship  crossed 
it  easily  in  broad  daylight,  piloted,  as  it  happened,  by 
Mr.  Sterne,  who  took  the  watch  from  four  to  six,  and 
then  went  below  to  hug  himself  with  delight  at  the  pros- 
pect of  being  virtuall}^  employed  by  a  rich  man — like 
Mr.  Van  Wyk.  He  could  not  see  how  any  hitch  could 
occur  now.  He  did  not  seem  able  to  get  over  the  feeling 
of  being  "  fixed  up  at  last."  From  six  to  eight,  in  the 
course  of  duty,  the  Serang  looked  alone  after  the  ship. 
She  had  a  clear  road  before  her  now  till  about  three  in 
the  morning,  when  she  would  close  with  the  Pangn 
group.     At  eight  Mr.  Sterne  came  out  cheerily  to  take 

[  354  1 


'  THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

diarge  again  till  midnight.     At  ten  he  was  still  chir 
ruping   and   humming  to   himself   on  the   bridge,    and 
about    that    time     Mr.     Van     Wyk'is     thought     aban- 
doned  the   Sofala.      Mr.    Van    Wyk   had    fallen   asleep 
at  last. 

Mass}^,  blocking  the  engine-room  companion,  jerked 
himself  into  his  tweed  jacket  surlily,  while  the  sjcond 
waited  with  a  scowl. 

"  Oh.  You  came  out  ?  You  sot !  Well,  what  have 
you  got  to  say  for  yourself.''  " 

Ho  had  been  in  charge  of  the  engines  till  then.     A 

somber   fur3^  darkened  his  mind:  a  hot  anger  against 

the  ship,  against  the  facts  of  life,  against  the  men  for 

their  cheating,  against  himself  too — because  of  an  in- 

iward  tremor  in  his  heart. 

I    An  incomprehensible  growl  answered  him. 

*'  What.^  Can't  you  open  your  mouth  now.?  You  yelp 
out  your  infernal  rot  loud  enough  when  you  are  drunk. 
Wimt  do  you  mean  by  abusing  people  in  that  way.? — 
you  old  useless  boozer,  you !  " 

"  Can't  help  it.  Don't  remember  anything  about  it. 
You  shouldn't  listen." 

'*  You  dare  to  tell  me !  What  do  you  mean  by  going 
on  a-  drunk  like  this  !  " 

'''  Don't  ask  me.     Sick  of  the  dam'  boilers — you  would 
be.     Sick  of  Hfe." 

*'  I  wish  3^ou  were  dead,  then.  You've  made  me  sick 
of  you.  Don't  you  remember  the  uproar  you  made  last 
niglit  P     You  miserable  old  soaker !  " 

"  No ;  I  don't.    Don't  want  to.     Drink  is  drink." 
r   355   ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

'^  I  wonder  what  prevents  me  from  kicking  you  out. 
What  do  3^ou  want  here?  " 

*■'  Relieve  you.  You've  been  long  enough  down  there, 
George." 

*'  Don't  you  George  me — you  tippling  old  rascal,  you! 
If  I  were  to  die  to-morrow  you  would  starve.  Remem- 
ber that.     Say  Mr.  Massy." 

"  Mr.  Massy,"  repeated  the  other  stolidly. 

Disheveled,  with  dull  blood-shot  eyes,  a  snufFy,  grimy 
shirt,  greasy  trowsers,  naked  feet  thrust  into  ragged 
t>iippers,  he  bolted  in  head  down  directly  Massy  had 
made  way  for  him. 

The  chief  engineer  looked  around.  The  deck  was 
empty  as  far  as  the  taffrail.  All  the  native  passengers 
had  left  in  Batu  Beru  this  time,  and  no  others  had 
joined.  The  dial  of  the  patent  log  tinkled  periodically 
in  the  dark  at  the  end  of  the  ship.  It  was  a  dead  calm, 
and,  under  the  clouded  sky,  through  the  still  air  that 
seemed  to  cling  warm,  with  a  seaweed  smell,  to  her  slim 
hull,  on  a  sea  of  somber  gray  and  unwrinkled,  the  ship 
moved  on  an  even  keel,  as  if  floating  detached  in  empty 
space.  But  Mr.  Massy  slapped  his  forehead,  tottered 
a  little,  caught  hold  of  a  belaying-pin  at  the  foot  of 
the  mast. 

"  I  shall  go  mad,"  he  muttered,  walking  across  the  deck 
unsteadily.  A  shovel  was  scraping  loose  coal  down  be- 
low— a  fire-door  clanged.  Sterne  on  the  bridge  began 
whistling  a  new  tune. 

Captain  Whallej' ,  sitting  on  the  couch,  awake  and  fully 
dressed,  heard  the  door  of  his  cabin  open.     He  did  not 

[  356  ] 


TRE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

move  in  tlie  least,  waiting  to  recognize  the  voice,  with 
an  appalling  strain  of  prudence. 

A  bulkhead  lamp  blazed  on  the  white  paint,  the  crim- 
son plush,  the  brown  varnish  of  mahogany  tops.  The 
white  wood  packing-case  under  the  bed-place  had  re- 
mained unopened  for  three  years  now,  as  though  Cap- 
tain Whalley  had  felt  that,  after  the  Fair  Maid  was 
gone,  there  could  be  no  abiding-place  on  earth  for  his 
affections.  His  hands  rested  on  his  knees;  his  hand- 
some head  with  big  eyebrows  presented  a  rigid  profile 
to  the  doorwaj'.  The  expected  voice  spoke  out  at 
last. 

"  Once  more,  then.     What  am  I  to  call  you.^^  " 

Hal  Massy.  Again.  The  weariness  of  it  crushed  his 
heart — and  the  pain  of  shame  was  almost  more  than  he 
could  bear  without  crying  out. 

"  Well.     Is  it  to  be  '  partner  '  still.?  " 

"  You^  don't  know  what  you  ask." 

"  I  know  what  I  want    .    .    ." 

Massy  stepped  in  and  closed  the  door. 

".  .  .  And  I  am  going  to  have  a  try  for  it  with  you 
once  more." 

His  whine  was  half  persuasive,  half  menacing. 

"  For  it's  no  manner  of  use  to  tell  me  that  you  are 
poor.  You  don't  spend  anything  on  yourself,  that's 
true  enough;  but  there's  another  name  for  that.  You 
think  you  are  agoing  to  have  what  you  want  out  of  me 
for  three  years,  and  then  cast  me  off  without  hearing 
what  I  think  of  you.  You  think  I  would  have  submitted 
to  your  airs  if  I  had  known  you  had  only  a  beggarly 

I  S57   ] 


THE    END    OF   THE   TETHER 

five  hundred  pounds  in  the  world.  You  ought  to  ]m\c 
told  me." 

*'  Perhaps,"  said  Captain  Whalle}^,  bowing  his  hen.d. 
"  And  yet  it  has  saved  you."  .  .  .  Massy  laughed 
scornfully.  ..."  I  have  told  you  often  enough 
since." 

"  And  I  don't  believe  3^ou  now.  When  I  think  how 
I  let  you  lord  it  over  my  ship !  Do  you  remember  how 
you  used  to  bullyrag  me  about  m}^  coat  and  2jour  bridge  ? 
It  was  in  his  way.  His  bridge !  '  And  I  won't  be  a 
party  to  this — and  I  couldn't  think  of  doing  that.' 
Honest  man!  And  now  it  all  comes  out.  '  I  am  poor, 
and  I  can't.  I  have  only  this  five  hundred  in  the 
world.'  " 

He  contemplated  the  immobility  of  Captain  Whallcy, 
that  seemed  to  present  an  in  conquerable  obstacle  in 
his  path.     His  face  took  a  mournful  cast. 

"  You  are  a  hard  man." 

"  Enough,"  said  Captain  Whalley,  turning  upon  him. 
"  You  shall  get  nothing  from  me,  because  I  have  noth- 
ing of  mine  to  give  away  novr." 

"  Tell  that  to  the  marines  !  " 

Mr.  Massy,  going  out,  looked  back  once;  then  the  door 
closed,  and  Captain  Whalley,  alone,  sat  as  still  as  before. 
He  had  nothing  of  his  own — even  his  own  past  of  honor, 
of  truth,  of  just  pride,  was  gone.  All  his  spotless  life 
had  fallen  into  the  abyss.  He  had  said  his  last  good-by 
to  it.  But  what  belonged  to  Jirr,  that  he  meant  to  save. 
Only  a  little  money.  He  would  take  it  to  her  in  his  own 
hands — this  last  gift  of  a  man  that  had  lasted  too  long. 

[  358   ] 


I 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

And  an  immense  and  fierce  impulse,  the  very  passion  of 
paternity,  flamed  up  with  all  the  unquenched  vigor  of 
his  worthless  life  in  a  desire  to  see  her  face. 

Just  across  the  deck  jNIassy  had  gone  straight  to  his 
cabin,  struck  a  light,  and  hunted  up  the  note  of  the 
dreamed  number  whose  figures  had  flamed  up  also  with 
the  fierceness  of  another  passion.  He  must  contrive 
somehow  not  to  miss  a  drawing.  That  number  meant 
something.  But  what  expedient  could  he  contrive  to 
keep  himself  going?  ^-^^^ 

"  Wretched  miser !  "  he  mumbled.  I 

If  Mr.  Sterne  could  at  no  time  have  told  him  anything  \ 
new  about  his  partner,  he  could  have  told  INIr.  Sterne 
that  another  use  could  be  made  of  a  man's  affliction  than 
just  to  kick  him  out,  and  thus  defer  the  term  of  a  diffi- 
cult payment  for  a  year.  To  keep  the  secret  of  the 
affiiction  and  induce  him  to  stay  vras  a  better  move.  If 
without  means,  he  would  be  anxious  to  remain ;  and  that 
settled  the  question  of  refunding  him  his  share.  He  did 
not  knov>r  exactly  how  much  Captain  Whalley  was  dis- 
abled ;  but  if  it  so  happened  that  he  put  the  ship  ashore 
somewhere  for  good  and  all,  it  was  not  the  owner's  fault 
— was  it.'*  He  was  not  obliged  to  know  that  there  was 
anything  wrong.  But  probably  nobody  would  raise 
such  a  point,  and  the  ship  was  fully  insured.  He  had 
had  enough  self-restraint  to  pay  up  the  premiums.  But 
this  was  not  all.  He  could  not  believe  Captain  Whalle}' 
to  be  so  confoundedly  destitute  as  not  to  have  some  more 
money  put  away  somewhere.  If  he.  Massy,  could  get 
hold  of  it,  that  would  pay  for  the  boilers,  and  every- 

[  359  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

thing  v.-ent  on  as  before.  And  if  she  got  lost  in  the 
end,  so  much  the  better.  He  hated  her:  he  loathed  the 
troubles  that  took  his  mind  off  the  chances  of  fortune. 
He  wished  her  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea,  and  the  in- 
surance money  in  his  pocket.  And  as,  baffled,  he  left 
Captain  Whalle3''s  cabin,  he  enveloped  in  the  same 
hatred  the  ship  with  the  worn-out  boilers  and  the  man 
with  the  dimmed  eyes. 

And  our  conduct  after  all  is  so  much  a  matter  of  outside 
suggestion,  that  had  it  not  been  for  his  Jack's  drunken 
gabble  he  would  have  there  and  then  had  it  out  with  this 
miserable  man,  who  would  neither  help,  nor  stay,  nor 
3^et  lose  the  ship.  The  old  fraud!  He  longed  to  kick 
him  out.  But  he  restrained  himself.  Time  enough  for 
that — Avhen  he  liked.  There  was  a  fearful  new  thought 
put  into  his  head.  Wasn't  he  up  to  it  after  all.?  How 
that  beast  Jack  had  raved !  "  Find  a  safe  trick  to  get 
rid  of  her."  Well,  Jack  was  not  so  far  wrong.  A  very 
clever  trick  had  occurred  to  him.  Aye!  But  what  of 
the  risk.? 

A  feeling  of  pride — the  pride  of  superiority  to  com- 
mon prejudices — crept  into  his  breast,  made  his  heart 
beat  fast,  his  mouth  turn  dr3\  Not  everjbody  would 
dare ;  but  he  was  Glassy,  and  he  was  up  to  it ! 

Six  bells  were  struck  on  deck.  Eleven !  He  drank  a 
glass  of  water,  and  sat  down  for  ten  minutes  or  so  to 
calm  himself.  Then  he  got  out  of  his  chest  a  small 
buU's-ej^e  lantern  of  his  own  and  lit  it. 

Almost  opposite  his  berth,  across  the  narrow  passage 
under  the  bridge,  there  was,  in  the  iron  deck-structur? 

[  360  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

covering  the  stokehold  fiddle  and  the  boiler-space,  a 
storeroom  with  iron  sides,  iron  roof,  iron-plated  floor, 
too,  on  account  of  the  heat  below.  All  sorts  of  rubbish 
was  shot  there :  it  had  a  mound  of  scrap-iron  in  a  corner ; 
rows  of  empty  oil-cans;  sacks  of  cotton-waste,  with  a 
heap  of  charcoal,  a  deck-forge,  fragments  of  an  old  hen- 
coop, winch-covers  all  in  rags,  remnants  of  lamps,  and 
a  brown  felt  hat,  discarded  by  a  man  dead  now  (of  a 
fever  on  the  Brazil  coast),  who  had  been  once  mate  of 
the  Sofala,  had  remained  for  years  jammed  forcibly  be- 
hind a  length  of  burst  copper  pipe,  flung  at  some  time 
or  other  out  of  the  engine-room.  A  complete  and  im- 
pervious blackness  pervaded  that  Capharnaum  of  for- 
gotten things.  A  small  shaft  of  light  from  Mr.  Massy's 
bull's-eye  fell  slanting  right  through  it. 

His  coat  was  unbuttoned;  he  shot  the  bolt  of  the  door 
(there  was  no  other  opening),  and,  squatting  before  the 
scrap-heap,  began  to  pack  his  pockets  with  pieces  of 
iron.  He  packed  them  carefully,  as  if  the  rusty  nuts, 
the  broken  bolts,  the  links  of  cargo  chain,  had  been  so 
much  gold  he  had  that  one  chance  to  carry  away.  He 
packed  his  side-pockets  till  they  bulged,  the  breast 
pocket,  the  pockets  inside.  He  turned  over  the  pieces. 
Some  he  rejected.  A  small  mist  of  powdered  rust  began 
to  rise  about  his  busy  hands.  Mr.  Massy  knew  some- 
thing of  the  scientific  basis  of  his  clever  trick.  If  you 
want  to  deflect  the  magnetic  needle  of  a  ship's  compass, 
soft  iron  is  the  best;  likewise  many  small  pieces  in  the 
pockets  of  a  jacket  would  have  more  eff'ect  than  a  few 
large  ones,  because  in  that  way  you  obtain  a  greater 

[861  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

amount  of  surface  for  weight  in  jour  iron,  and  it's  sur- 
face that  tells. 

He  slipped  out  swiftly — two  strides  sufficed — and  in 
his  cabin  he  perceived  that  his  hands  were  all  red — red 
with  rust.  It  disconcerted  him,  as  though  he  had  found 
them  covered  with  blood:  he  looked  himself  over  hastily. 
Why,  his  trowsers  too !  He  had  been  rubbing  his  rusty 
palms  on  his  legs. 

He  tore  off  the  waistband  button  in  his  haste,  brushed 
his  coat,  washed  his  hands.  Then  the  air  of  guilt  left 
him,  and  he  sat  down  to  wait. 

He  sat  bolt  upright  and  weighted  with  iron  in  his 
chair.  He  had  a  hard,  lumpy  bulk  against  each  hip, 
felt  the  scrappy  iron  in  his  pockets  touch  his  ribs  at 
every  breath,  the  downward  drag  of  all  these  pounds 
hanging  upon  his  shoulders.  He  looked  very  dull  too, 
sitting  idle  there,  and  his  yellow  face,  with  motionless 
black  eyes,  had  something  passive  and  sad  in  its  quiet- 
ness. 

When  he  heard  eight  bells  struck  above  his  head,  he 
rose  and  made  ready  to  go  out.  His  movements  seemed 
aimless,  his  lower  lip  had  dropped  a  little,  his  eyes 
roamed  about  the  cabin,  and  the  tremendous  tension  of 
his  will  had  robbed  them  of  every  vestige  of  intelligence. 

With  the  last  stroke  of  the  bell  the  Serang  appeared 
noiselessly  on  the  bridge  to  relieve  the  mate.  Sterne 
overflowed  with  good  nature,  since  he  had  nothing  more 
to  desire. 

"  Got  your  eyes  well  open  yet,  Serang?  It's  middling 
dark ;  I'll  wait  till  you  get  your  sight  properly." 

[  362  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

The  old  Malay  murmured,  looked  up  with  his  worn 
eyes,  sidled  away  into  the  light  of  the  binnacle,  and, 
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back,  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
compass-card. 

*'  You'll  have  to  keep  a  good  look-out  ahead  for 
land,  about  half -past  three.  It's  fairly  clear,  though. 
You  have  looked  in  on  the  captain  as  you  came 
along — eh?  He  knows  the  time?  Well,  then,  I  am 
off." 

At  the  foot  of  the  ladder  he  stood  aside  for  the  captain. 
He  watched  him  go  up  with  an  even,  certain  tread,  and 
remained  thoughtful  for  a  moment.  "  It's  funny,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "  but  you  can  never  tell  whether  that 
man  has  seen  you  or  not.  He  might  have  heard  me 
breathe  this  time." 

He  was  a  wonderful  man  when  all  was  said  and  done. 
They  said  he  had  had  a  name  in  his  day.  Mr.  Sterne 
could  well  believe  it;  and  he  concluded  sereneh*  that 
Captain  Whalley  must  be  able  to  see  people  more  or  less 
— as  himself  just  now,  for  instance — but  not  being  cer- 
tain of  an3^body,  had  to  keep  up  that  unnoticing  silence 
of  manner  for  fear  of  giving  himself  away.  Mr.  Sterne 
was  a  shrewd  guesser. 

This  necessity  of  every  moment  brought  home  to  Cap- 
tain Whalley's  heart  the  humiliation  of  his  falsehood. 
He  had  drifted  into  it  from  paternal  love,  from  in- 
credulity, from  boundless  trust  in  divine  justice  meted 
out  to  men's  feelings  on  this  earth.  He  would  give  his 
poor  Ivy  the  benefit  of  another  month's  work;  perhaps 
the  affliction  was  only  temporary.     Surely  God  would 

[  363  1 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

not  rob  his  child  of  his  power  to  help,  and  cast  hira 

rv  naked  into   a  night  without  end.      He  had  caught  at    , 

every  hope;  and  when  the  evidence  of  his  misfortune    ;i 

\  was  stronger  than  hope,  he  tried  not  to  believe  the  mani-    j 

^fest  thing.  j 

In  vain.  In  the  steadily  darkening  universe  a  sinister 
clearness  fell  upon  his  ideas.  In  the  illuminating  mo- 
ments of  suffering  he  saw  life,  men,  all  things,  the  whole 
earth  with  all  her  burden  of  created  nature,  as  he  had 
never  seen  them  before. 

Sometimes  he  was  seized  with  a  sudden  vertigo  and  an 
overwhelming  terror ;  and  then  the  image  of  his  daughter 
appeared.  Her,  too,  he  had  never  seen  so  clearly  before. 
Was  it  possible  that  he  should  ever  be  unable  to  do 
anything  whatever  for  her.^  Nothing.  And  not  see 
her  any  more.^^     Never. 

Why.'^  The  punishment  was  too  great  for  a  little  pre- 
sumption, for  a  little  pride.  And  at  last  he  came  to 
cling  to  his  deception  with  a  fierce  determination  to  carrj^ 
it  out  to  the  end,  to  save  her  money  intact,  and  behold 
her  once  more  with  his  own  eyes.  Afterwards — what.'' 
The  idea  of  suicide  was  revolting  to  the  vigor  of  his 
manhood.  He  had  prayed  for  death  till  the  prayers  had 
stuck  in  his  throat.  All  the  days  of  his  life  he  had 
prayed  for  daily  bread,  and  not  to  be  led  into  tempta- 
tion, in  a  childlike  humility  of  spirit.  Did  words  mean 
anything.?  Whence  did  the  gift  of  speech  come.''  The 
violent  beatinsj  of  his  heart  reverberated  in  his  head — > 
seemed  to  shake  his  brain  to  pieces. 

He  sat  down  heavily  in  the  deck-chair  to  keep  the  pre- 

[  364  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

tense  of  his  watch.    The  night  was  dark.    All  the  nights 
were  dark  now. 

"  Serang,"  he  said,  half  aloud. 

"  Ada,  Tuan.     I  am  here." 

"  There  are  clouds  on  the  sky  ?  " 

"  There  are,  Tuan." 

"  Let  her  be  steered  straight.     North." 

"  She  is  going  north,  Tuan." 

The   Serang  stepped  back.      Captain  Whalley  recog- 
nized Massy's  footfalls  on  the  bridge. 

The  engineer  walked  over  to  port  and  returned,  pass- 
ing behind  the  chair  several  times.  Captain  Whalley 
detected  an  unusual  character  as  of  prudent  care  in  this- 
prowling.  The  near  presence  of  that  man  brought  with 
it  always  a  recrudescence  of  moral  suffering  for  Captain 
Whalley.  It  was  not  remorse.  After  all,  he  had  done 
nothing  but  good  to  the  poor  devil.  There  was  also 
a  sense  of  danger — the  necessity  of  a  greater  care. 

Massy  stopped  and  said — 

"  So  you  still  say  you  must  go.^*  " 

"  I  must  indeed." 

"  And  you  couldn't  at  least  leave  the  money  for  a  term 
of  years?  " 

"  Impossible." 

"  Can't  trust  it  with  me  without  your  care,  eh?  " 

Captain     Whalley     remained     silent.      Massy     sighed 
deeply  over  the  back  of  the  chair. 

"  It  would  just  do  to  save  me,"  he  said  in  a  tremulous 
voice. 

"  I've  saved  you  once.'^ 

[  365  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

The  chief  engineer  took  off  his  coat  with  careful 
movements,  and  proceeded  to  feel  for  the  brass  hook 
screwed  into  the  wooden  stanchion.  For  this  purpose  he 
placed  himself  right  in  front  of  the  binnacle,  thus  hid- 
ing completely  the  compass-card  from  the  quarter- 
niMster  at  the  wheel.  "  Tuan !  "  the  lascar  at  last  mur- 
mured softly,  meaning  to  let  the  white  man  know  that 
]k'  could  not  see  to  steer. 

]\Ir.  Massy  had  accomplished  his  purpose.  The  coat 
was  lianging  from  the  nail,  within  six  inches  of  the 
bhmacle.  And  directly  he  had  stepped  aside  the  quarter- 
master, a  middle-aged,  pock-marked,  Sumatra  Malay, 
almost  as  dark  as  a  negro,  perceived  with  amazement 
that  in  that  short  time,  in  this  smooth  water,  with  no 
wind  at  all,  the  ship  had  gone  swinging  far  out  of  licr 
course.  He  had  never  known  her  get  away  like  this 
before.  With  a  slight  grunt  of  astonishment  he  turned 
the  wheel  hastily  to  bring  her  head  back  north,  whicli 
was  the  course.  The  grinding  of  the  steering-chains, 
the  chiding  murmurs  of  the  Serang,  who  had  come  over 
to  the  wheel,  made  a  slight  stir,  which  attracted  Cap- 
tain Whalley's  anxious  attention.  He  said,  "  Take 
better  care."  Then  ever3^thing  settled  to  the  usual  quiet 
on  the  bridge.     ^Ir.  Massy  had  disappeared. 

But  the  iron  in  the  pockets  of  the  coat  had  done  its 
work ;  and  the  Sofala,  heading  north  by  the  compass, 
made  untrue  by  this  simple  device,  was  no  longer  mak- 
ing a  safe  course  for  Pangu  Bay. 

The  hiss  of  water  parted  by  her  stem,  the  throb  of  her 
engines,  all  the  sounds  of  her  faitliful  and  laborious  life, 

[  S66  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

went  on  uninterrupted  in  the  great  calm  of  the  sea  join- 
ing on  all  sides  the  motionless  layer  of  cloud  over  the 
sky.  A  gentle  stillness  as  vast  as  the  world  seemed  to 
wait  upon  her  path,  enveloping  her  lovingly  in  a  su- 
preme caress.  Mr.  Massy  thought  there  could  be  no 
better  night  for  an  arranged  shipwreck. 

Run  up  high  and  dry  on  one  of  the  reefs  east  of 
Pangu — wait  for  daylight — hole  in  the  bottom — out 
boats — Pangu  Bay  same  evening.  That's  about  it.  As 
soon  as  she  touched  he  would  hasten  on  the  bridge,  get 
hold  of  the  coat  (nobody  would  notice  in  the  dark), 
and  shake  it  upside-down  over  the  side,  or  even  fling 
it  into  the  sea.  A  detail.  Who  could  guess  ?  Coat  been 
seen  hanging  there  from  that  hook  hundreds  of  times. 
Nevertheless,  when  he  sat  down  on  the  lower  step  of  the 
bridge-ladder  his  knees  knocked  together  a  little.  Tlie 
waiting  part  was  the  worst  of  it.  At  times  he  would 
begin  to  pant  quickly,  as  though  he  had  been  running, 
and  then  breathe  largely,  swelling  with  the  intimate 
sense  of  a  mastered  fate.  Now  and  then  he  would  hear 
the  shuffle  of  the  Serang's  bare  feet  up  there :  quiet,  low 
voices  would  exchange  a  few  words,  and  lapse  almost 
at  once  into  silence.    .    .    . 

"  Tell  me  directly  you  see  any  land,  Serang." 

"  Yes,  Tuan.     Not  yet." 

"  No,  not  yet,"  Captain  Whalley  would  agree. 

The  ship  had  been  the  best  friend  of  his  decline.  He 
had  sent  all  the  money  he  had  made  by  and  in  the 
Sofala  to  his  daughter.  His  thought  lingered  on  the 
name.     How  often  he  and  his  wife  had  talked  over  the 

[  367  ] 


THE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

cot  of  the  child  in  the  big  stern-cabin  of  the  Condor;  she 
would  grow  up,  she  would  marry,  she  would  love  tliem, 
they  would  live  near  her  and  look  at  her  happiness — it 
would  go  on  without  end.  Well,  his  wife  was  dead,  to 
the  child  he  had  given  all  he  had  to  give;  he  wished  he 
could  come  near  her,  see  her,  see  her  face  once,  live  in 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  that  could  make  the  darkness  of 
the  living  grave  ready  for  him  supportable.  He  liad 
been  starved  of  love  too  long.  He  imagined  her  tender- 
ness. 

The  Serang  had  been  peering  forward,  and  now  and 
then  glancing  at  the  chair.  He  fidgeted  restlessly,  and 
suddenly  burst  out  close  to  Captain  Whalley — 

"  Tuan,  do  you  see  anything  of  the  land.^  " 

The  alarmed  voice  brought  Captain  Whalley  to  his  feet 
at  once.  He !  See !  And  at  the  question,  the  curse  of 
his  blindness  seemed  to  fall  on  him  with  a  hundredfold 
force. 

"  What's  the  time.?  "  he  cried. 

"  Half-past  three,  Tuan." 

"  We  are  close.     You  must  see.     Look,  I  say.     Look." 

Mr.  ^Massy,  awakened  by  the  sudden  sound  of  talking 
from  a  short  doze  on  the  lowest  step,  wondered  why  he 
was  there.  Ah !  A  faintness  came  over  him.  It  is  one 
thing  to  sow  the  seed  of  an  accident  and  another  to  see 
the  monstrous  fruit  hanging  over  your  head  ready  to 
fall  in  the  sound  of  agitated  voices.  * 'There's  no 
danger,"  he  muttered  thicldy  to  himself. 

The  horror  of  incertitude  had  seized  upon  Captain 
Whalley,  the  miserable  mistrust  of  men»  of  things— of 
[   368   ]  ^^ 


TKE    END   OF   THE   TETHER 

the  very  earth.     He  had  steered  that  very  course  thirty- 

Nsix -times  by  the  same  compass — if  anything  was  certain 

in  this  world  it  was  its  absolute,  unerring  correctness. 

Then  what  hcd  liappened?     Did  the  Serang  lie.?     Why 

lie.'^    Y^hy.?     Was  he  going  blind  too.? 

"  Is  there  a  mist.?     Look  low  on  the  water.    Low  down, 

•»  I  say." 

"  Tuan,  there's  no  mist.  See  for  yourself." 
Captain  Whalley  steadied  the  trembling  of  his  limbs 
by  an  effort.  Should  he  stop  the  engines  at  once  and 
give  himself  away.  A  gust  of  irresolution  swayed  all 
sorts  of  bizarre  notions  in  his  mind.  The  unusual  had 
come,  and  he  was  not  fit  to  deal  with  it.  In  this  passage 
of  inexpressible  anguish  he  saw  her  face — the  face  of 
a  young  girl — with  an  amazing  strength  of  illusion. 
No,  he  must  not  give  himself  away  after  having  gone 
so  far  for  her  sake.  "  You  steered  the  course  ?  You 
made  it.?  Speak  the  truth." 
"  Ya,  Tuan.  On  the  course  now.  Look." 
Captain  Whalley  strode  to  the  binnacle,  which  to  him 
made  such  a  dim  spot  of  light  in  an  infinity  of  shape- 
less shadow.  By  bending  his  face  right  down  to  the 
glass  he  had  been  able  before    .    .    . 

Having  to  stoop  so  lov/,  he  put  out,  instinctivelj^,  his 
arm  to  where  he  knew  there  was  a  stanchion  to  steady 
himself  against.  His  hand  closed  on  something  that 
was  not  wood  but  cloth.  The  slight  pull  adding  to  the 
weight,  the  loop  broke,  and  Mr.  Massy's  coat  falling, 
struck  the  deck  heavily  with  a  dull  thump,  accompanied 
by  a  lot  of  clicks. 

[  369  ] 


THE    END    OF   THE    TETHER 

"Vv^hat's  this?" 

Captain  Wlialley  fell  on  his  knees,  with  groping  hands 
extended  in  a  frank  gesture  of  blindness.  They  trem- 
bled, these  hands  feeling  for  the  truth.  He  saw  it.  Iron 
near  the  compass.  Wrong  course.  Wreck  her !  His 
ship.     Oh  no.     Not  that. 

"  Jump  and  stop  her !  "  he  roared  out  in  a  voice  not 
his  own. 

He  ran  himself — ^hands  forward,  a  blind  man,  and 
while  the  clanging  of  the  gong  echoed  still  all  over  thi 
ship,  she  seemed  to  butt  full  tilt  into  the  side  of  a 
jnountain. 

It  was  low  water  along  the  north  side  of  the  strait. 
Mr.  Massy  had  not  reckoned  on  that.  Instead  of  run- 
ning aground  for  half  her  length,  the  Sofala  butted  the 
sheer  ridge  of  a  stone  reef  which  would  have  been 
awash  at  high  water.  This  made  the  shock  absolutely 
terrific.  Everj^body  in  the  ship  that  was  standing  was 
thrown  down  headlong :  the  shaken  rigging  made  a  great 
rattling  to  the  ver}'  trucks.  All  the  lights  went  out; 
several  chain-guys,  snapping,  clattered  against  the 
funnel;  there  were  crashes,  pings  of  parted  wire-rope, 
splintering  sounds,  loud  cracks;  the  masthead  lamp  flew 
over  the  bows,  and  all  the  doors  about  the  deck  began 
to  bang  heavily.  Then,  after  having  hit,  she  rebounded, 
hit  the  second  time  the  very  same  spot  like  a  battering- 
ram.  This  completed  the  havoc:  the  funnel,  with  all 
the  guys  gone,  fell  over  with  a  hollow  sound  of  thunder, 
smashing  the  wheel  to  bits,  crushing  the  frame  of  the 
awnings,  breaking  the  lockers,  filling  the  bridge  with 

[  370  ] 


THE  END  OF  THE  TETHER 

a  mass  of  broken  wood.  Captain  Whalley  picked 
himself  up  and  stood  knee-deep  in  wreckage,  torn, 
bleeding,  knowing  the  nature  of  the  danger  he  had  es- 
caped mostly  by  the  sound,  and  holding  Mr.  Massy's 
coat  in  his  arms. 

B}^  this  time  Sterne  (he  had  been  flung  out  of  his 
bunk)  had  set  the  engines  astern.  They  worked  for  a 
few  turns,  then  a  voice  bawled  out,  "  Get  out  of  the 
damned  engine-room,  Jack  !  " — and  thc}^  stopped ;  but 
the  ship  had  gone  clear  of  the  reef  and  lay  still,  with  a 
heavy  cloud  of  steam  issuing  from  the  broken  deck- 
pipes,  and  vanisliing  in  wispy  shapes  into  the  night. 
Notwithstanding  the  suddenness  of  the  disaster  there 
was  no  shouting,  as  if  the  very  violence  of  the  shock 
had  half-stunned  the  shadowy  lot  of  people  swaying 
here  and  there  about  her  decks.  The  voice  of  the  Serang 
pronounced  distinctly  above  the  confused  murmurs — 

"No  bottom"     He  had  heaved  the  lead. 

Mr.  Sterne  cried  out  next  in  a  strained  pitch — 

"  Where  the  devil  has  she  got  to?    Wliere  are  we?  " 

Captain  Whalley  replied  in  a  calm  bass — 

"  Amongst  the  reefs  to  the  eastward." 

"You  know  it,  sir.^  Then  she  will  never  get  out 
again." 

"She  will  be  gone  in  five  minutes.  Boats,  Sterne. 
Even  one  will  save  you  all  in  this  calm." 

The  Chinaman  stokers  went  in  a  disorderly  rush  for 
the  port  boats.  Nobody  tried  to  check  them.  The 
Malays,  after  a  moment  of  confusion,  became  quiet, 
and  Mr.  Sterne  showed  a  good  countenance.     Captain 

[  371   1 


T  H  E   E  N  D   O  F   '1  K  E   T  E  T  H  E  R 

Whalley  had  not  moved.  His  thoughts  were  darker 
than  this  night  in  which  he  had  lost  his  first  ship. 

"  He  made  me  lose  a  ship." 

Another  tall  figure  standing  before  him  amongst  the 
litter  of  the  smash  on  the  bridge  whispered  insanely — 

"  Say  nothing  of  it." 

Massy  stumbled  closer.  Captain  Whalley  heard  the 
chattering  of  his  teeth. 

"  I  have  the  coat." 

"  Throw  it  dov/n  and  come  along,"  urged  the  chatter- 
ing voice.     "  B-b-b-b-boat !  " 

"You  will  get  five  years  for  this." 

Mr.  Massy  had  lost  his  voice.  His  speech  was  a  mere 
dry  rustling  in  his  throat. 

"  Have  mercy  !  " 

"  Had  you  anj'  when  you  made  me  lose  my  ship?  ^h\ 
Massy,  you  shall  get  five  years  for  this!" 

"  I  wanted  money  !  ^lone}^ !  My  own  mone}' !  I  will 
give  -you  some  mone3\  Take  half  of  it.  You  love 
mone}^  yourself." 

"  Tliere's  a  justice    .    .    ." 

Massy  made  an  awful  effort,  and  in  a  strange,  half- 
choked  utterance — 

"  You  blind  devil !     It's  you  that  drove  me  to  it." 

Captain  Whalle^^,  hugging  the  coat  to  his  breast, 
made  no  sound.  The  light  had  ebbed  for  ever  from  the 
world — let  everything  go.  But  this  man  should  not 
escape  scot-free. 

Sterne's  voice  commanded — 

•'  Lower  away !  " 

[   372    ' 


THE   END   OF    THE   TETHER 

The  blocks  rattled. 

"  Nov/  then,"  he  cried,  "  over  with  j^ou.  This  way. 
You,  Jack,  here.  Mr.  Massy!  Mr.  Massy  1  Captain! 
Quick,  sir!     Let's  get " 

"  I  shall  go  to  prison  for  tr^dng  to  cheat  the  insurance, 
but  you'll  get  exposed;  you,  honest  man,  who  has  been 
cheating  me.  You  are  poor.  Aren't  you.?  You've 
nothing  but  the  five  hundred  pounds.  Well,  you  have 
nothing  at  all  now.  The  ship's  lost,  and  the  insurance 
won't  be  paid." 

Captain  Whalley  did  not  move.  True  !  Ivy's  money ! 
Gone  in  this  wreck.  Again  he  had  a  flash  of  insight. 
He  was  indeed  at  the  end  of  his  tether. 

Urgent  voices  cried  out  together  alongside.  Massy 
did  not  seem  able  to  tear  himself  away  from  the  bridge. 
He  chattered  and  hissed  despairingly — 

"  Give  it  up  to  me  !     Give  it  up  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Captain  Whalley ;  "  I  could  not  give  it  up. 
You  had  better  go.  Don't  wait,  man,  if  you  want  to 
live.  She's  settling  down  by  the  head  fast.  No ;  I  shall 
keep  it,  but  I  shall  stay  on  board." 

;Massy  did  not  seem  to  understand ;  but  the  love  of  life, 
avrakcned  suddenly,  drove  him  away  from  the  bridge. 

Captain  Whalley  laid  the  coat  down,  and  stumbled 
amongst  the  heaps  of  wreckage  to  the  side. 

"Is  Mr.  Massy  with  you?"  he  called  out  into  the 
night. 

Sterne  from  the  boat  shouted — 

"  Yes ;  we've  got  him.  Come  along,  sir.  It's  madness 
to  stay  longer." 

r  ^TS  ! 


r*' 


T  H  i:  i :  :\  d  o  i'  t  h  e  tether 

Captain  Whallcj  felt  along  the  rail  carefull}',  andj 
without  a  vrord,  cast  off  the  painter.  They  were  ex- 
pecting him  still  down  there.  They  were  waiting,  till 
a  A'oice  suddenl}'  exclaimed — 

"We  are  adrift!     Shove  off!" 

"  Captain  Whalley  !    Leap !   .    .    .   pull  up  a  little  .   .  . 

eap!    You  can  swim." 

In  that  old  heart,  in  that  vigorous  body,  there  was, 
that  nothing  should  bo  wanting,  a  horror  of  death  that 
apparently  could  not  be  overcome  by  the  horror  of 
blindness.  But  after  all,  for  Ivy  he  had  carried  his 
point,  walking  in  his  darkness  to  the  very  verge  of  a 
crime.  God  had  not  listened  to  his  prayers.  The  light 
had  finished  ebbing  out  of  the  worlds  not  a  glimmer.  It 
was  a  dark  was^te ;  but  it  was  unseemly  that  a  Whalley 
who  had  gone  so  far  to  carry  a  point  should  continue 
to  live.     He  must  pay  the  price. 

"  Leap  as  far  as  you  can,  sir ;  we  will  pick  you  up." 

They  did  not  hear  him  answer.  But  their  shouting 
seemed  to  remind  him  of  something.  He  groped  his 
way  back,  and  sought  for  Mr.  Massy's  coat.  He  could 
swim  indeed;  people  sucked  down  by  the  whirlpool  of 
a  sinking  ship  do  come  up  sometimes  to  the  surface,  and 
it  was  unseemly  that  a  Whalley,  who  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  die,  should  be  beguiled  by  chance  into  a 
struggle.  He  would  put  all  these  pieces  of  iron  into  his 
own  pockets. 

They,  looking  from  the  boat,  saw  the  Sofala,  a  black 
mass  upon  a  black  sea,  lying  still  at  an  appalling  c^nt. 
No  sound  came  from  her.     Then,  with  a  great  bizarre 

\  3T4  ] 


THE    END    OF   THE   TETHER 

shuffling  noise,  as  if  the  boilers  had  broken  tlirough  the 
bulkheads,  and  with  a  faint  muffled  detonation,  vrhere 
the  ship  had  been  there  appeared  for  a  moment  some- 
thing standing  upright  and  narrow,  like  a  tg^a  out  of 
the  sea.     Then  that  too  disappeared- 

When  the  Sofala  failed  to  come  back  to  Batu  Bcru  at 
the  proper  time,  ]Mr.  Van  W3^k  understood  at  once  that 
he  would  never  see  her  any  more.  But  he  did  not  know 
what  had  ha^^pened  till  some  weeks  afterwards,  when» 
in  a  native  craft  lent  iiim  hy  his  Sultan,  he  had  madd 
his  wa}'  to  the  Sofala's  port  of  registrjr,  where  already 
her  existence  and  the  official  inquir}^  into  her  loss  was 
beginning  to  be  forgotten. 

It  had  not  been  a  very  remarkable  or  interesting  case, 
except  for  the  fact  that  the  captain  had  gone  down  with 
his  sinking  ship.  It  was  the  only  life  lost ;  and  Mr.  Van 
Wj'k  would  not  have  been  able  to  learn  any  details  had 
it  not  been  for  Sterne,  whom  he  met  one  day  on  the  quay 
near  the  bridge  over  the  creek,  almost  on  the  very  spot 
where  Captain  Whalley,  to  preserve  his  daughter's  five 
hundred  pounds  intact,  had  turned  to  get  a  sampan 
which  would  take  him  on  board  the  Sofala. 

From  afar  Mr.  Van  Wyk  saw  Sterne  blink  straight  at 
him  and  raise  his  hand  to  his  hat.  They  drew  into  the 
shade  of  a  building  (it  was  a  bank),  and  the  mate  re- 
lated how  the  boats  with  the  crew  got  into  Pangu  Bay 
about  six  hours  after  the  accident,  and  how  they  had 
I'ved  for  a  fortnight  in  a  state  of  destitution  before  they 
found  an  opportunity  to  get  away   from  that  beastly 

C  375  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

place.  The  inquiry  had  exonerated  everybody  from  all 
blame.  The  loss  of  the  ship  was  put  down  to  an  un- 
usual set  of  the  current.  Indeed,  it  could  not  have  been 
anything  else:  there  was  no  other  w^ay  to  account  for 
the  ship  being  set  seven  miles  to  the  eastward  of  her 
position  during  the  middle  watch. 

"  A  piece  of  bad  luck  for  me,  sir." 

Sterne  passed  his  tongue  on  his  lips,  and  glanced  aside. 
"  I  lost  the  advantage  of  being  employed  by  you,  sir. 
I  can  never  be  sorry  enough.  But  here  it  is :  one  man's 
poison,  another  man's  meat.  Tliis  could  not  have  been 
handier  for  Mr.  Massy  if  he  had  arranged  that  ship- 
wreck himself.  The  most  timely  total^  loss  I've  ever 
heard  of." 

"  What  became  of  that  Massy.?  "  asked  Mr.  Van  Wyk. 

"  He,  sir  ?  Ha !  ha !  He  would  keep  on  telling  me 
that  he  meant  to  buy  another  ship;  but  as  soon  as  he 
had  the  money  in  his  pocket  he  cleared  out  for  Manilla 
by  m.ail-boat  early  in  the  morning.  I  gave  him  chase 
right  aboard,  and  he  told  me  then  he  was  going  to  make 
his  fortune  dead  sure  in  Manilla.  I  could  go  to  the 
devil  for  all  he  cared.  And  yet  he  as  good  as  promised 
to  give  me  the  command  if  I  didn't  talk  too  much." 

"  You  never  said  anything  .  .  ."  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
began. 

"  Not  I,  sir.  Why  should  I.'^  I  mean  to  get  on,  but 
the  dead  aren't  in  my  w^ay,"  said  Sterne.  His  eyelids 
were  beating  rapidly,  then  drooped  for  an  instant. 
*'  Besides,  sir,  it  would  have  been  an  awkward  businesSc 
You  made  me  hold  my  tongue  just  a  bit  too  long." 

[  e.76  1 


THE   END   OF   THE  T  E  T  H  ETC 

**Do  you  know  how  it  was  that  Captain  Whalley  re- 
mained on  board  ?  Did  he  really  refuse  to  leave  ?  Come 
now  !    Or  was  it  perhaps  an  accidental   .   .    .  ?  " 

"  Nothing !  "  Sterne  interrupted  with  energy.  "  I  tell 
3'ou  I  yelled  for  him  to  leap  overboard.  He  simply 
must  have  cast  off  the  painter  of  the  boat  himself.  We 
all  yelled  to  him — that  is,  Jack  and  I.  He  wouldn't  even 
answer  us.  The  ship  was  as  silent  as  a  grave  to  the  last. 
Then  the  boilers  fetched  away,  and  down  she  went. 
Accident !    Not  it !     The  game  vras  up,  sir,  I  tell  you." 

This  was  all  that  Sterne  had  to  say. 

Mr.  Van  Wyk  had  been  of  course  made  the  guest  of 
the  club  for  a  fortnight,  and  it  was  there  that  he  met 
the  lawyer  in  whose  office  had  been  signed  the  agreement 
between  Massy  and  Captain  Wiialley. 

'^  Extraordinary  old  man,"  he  said.  "  He  came  into 
my  office  from  nov/here  in  particular  as  jou  may  say, 
with  his  five  hundred  pounds  to  invest,  and  that  engineer 
fellow  following  him  anxiously.  And  now  he  is  gone  out 
a  little  inexplicably,  just  as  he  came.  I  could  never 
understand  him  quite.  There  vras  no  mystery  at  all 
about  that  Massy,  eh?  I  wonder  whether  Whalley  re- 
fused to  leave  the  ship.  It  would  have  been  foolish. 
He  v.'as  blameless,  as  the  court  found." 

Mr.  "\^an  Wyk  had  known  him  well,  he  said,  and  he 
could  not  believe  in  suicide.  Such  an  act  would  not 
have  been  in  character  with  what  he  knew  of  the  man. 

"  It  is-  my  opinion,  too,"  the  law3'er  agreed.  The  gen- 
eral theory  was  that  the  captain  had  remained  too  long 
on  board  trying  to  save  something  of  importance.    Per- 

r  S77  1 


THE   END   OF  THE   TETKER 

Imps  tLe  chart  which  would  clear  him,  or  else  something; 
-  of  value  in  his  cabin.  The  painter  of  the  boat  had! 
come  adrift  of  itself  it  was  supposed.  However,  strange 
to  sa}^,  some  little  time  before  that  voyage  poor  Whalley 
had  called  in  his  office  and  had  left  wi.!-h  him  a  sealed 
envelope  addressed  to  his  daughter,  to  be  forwarded  to 
her  in  case  of  his  death.  Still  it  was  nothing  very  un- 
iismal,  especially  in  a  man  of  his  age.  Mr.  Van  Wyk 
shook  his  head.  Captain  Whalley  looked  good  for  a 
hundred  years. 

"  Perfectly  true,"  assented  the  lawyer.  "  The  old 
fellow  looked  as  though  he  had  come  into  the  world  full- 
grown  and  with  that  long  beard.  I  could  never,  some- 
how, imagine  him  either  younger  or  older — don't  you 
know.  There  was  a  sense  of  physical  power  about  that 
man  too.  And  perhaps  that  v/as  the  secret  of  that  some- 
thing peculiar  in  his  person  which  struck  everybody  who 
came  in  contact  with  him.  He  looked  indestructible  by 
any  ordinary  means  that  put  an  end  to  the  rest  of  us. 
His  deliberate,  stately  courtesy/  of  manner  was  full  of 
significance.  It  was  as  though  he  were  certain  of  hav- 
ing  plenty  of  time  for  everything.  Yes,  there  was 
something  indestructible  about  him;  and  the  way  he 
talked  sometimes  you  might  have  thought  he  believed 
it  himself.  When  he  called  on  me  last  with  that  letter 
he  wanted  me  to  take  charge  of,  he  was  not  depressed  at 
all.  Perhaps  a  shade  more  deliberate  in  his  talk  and 
manner.  Not  depressed  in  the  least.  Had  he  a  pre- 
sentiment, I  wonder  ?  Perhaps !  Still  it  seems  a  misera- 
ble end  for  such  a  striking  figure." 

r  sTe  1 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

"  Oh  yes !  It  was  a  miserable  end,"  Mr.  Van  Wyk  said, 
with  so  much  fervor  that  the  lawyer  looked  up  at  him 
curiously;  and  afterwards,  after  parting  with  him,  he 
remarked  to  an  acquaintance — 

"  Queer  person  that  Dutch  tobacco-planter  from  Batu 
Bern.     Know  anything  of  him?  " 

"  Heaps  of  money,"  answered  the  bank  manager.  "  I 
hear  he's  going  home  by  the  next  mail  to  form  a  com- 
pany to  take  over  his  estates.  Another  tobacco  district 
thrown  open.  He's  wise,  I  think.  These  good  times 
won't  last  for  ever." 

In  the  southern  hemisphere  Captain  Whalley's  daugh- 
ter had  no  presentiment  of  evil  when  she  opened  the 
envelope  addressed  to  her  in  the  lawyer's  handwriting. 
She  had  received  it  in  the  afternoon;  all  the  boarders 
had  gone  out,  her  boys  were  at  school,  her  husband  sat 
upstairs  in  his  big  arm-chair  with  a  book,  thin-faced, 
wrapped  up  in  rugs  to  the  waist.  The  house  was  still, 
and  the  grayness  of  a  cloudy  day  lay  against  the  panes 
of  the  windows. 

In  a  shabby  dining-room,  where  a  faint  cold  smell  of 
dishes  lingered  all  the  year  round,  sitting  at  the  end  of 
a  long  table  surrounded  by  many  chairs  pushed  in  with 
their  backs  close  against  the  edge  of  the  perpetually  laid 
table-cloth,  she  read  the  opening  sentences :  "  Most  pro- 
found regret — painful  duty — your  father  is  no  more — 
in  accordance  with  his  instructions — fatal  casualty — 
consolation — no  blame  attached  to  his  memory.   .   .   .'* 

Her  face  was  thin,  her  temples  a  little  sunk  under  the 
SHttooth  bands  of  black  hair,  her  lips  remained  resoluteij^ 

[  379  ] 


THE  END   OF  THE  TETHER 

compressed,  while  her  dark  eyes  grew  larger,  till  at  last, 
with  a  low  cry,  she  stood  up,  and  instantly  stooped  to 
pick  up  another  envelope  which  had  slipped  off  her 
knees  on  to  the  floor. 

She  tore  it  open,  snatched  out  the  inclosure.   .   .   . 

"  My  dearest  child,"  it  said,  "  I  am  writing  this  while 
I  am  able  yet  to  vv^rite  legibly.  I  am  trying  hard  to 
save  for  you  all  the  money  that  is  left ;  I  have  only  kept 
it  to  serve  you  better.  It  is  yours.  It  shall  not  be  lost : 
it  shall  not  be  touched.  There's  five  hundred  pounds. 
Of  what  I  have  earned  I  have  kept  nothing  back  tiJJ 
now.  For  the  future,  if  I  live,  I  must  keep  back  some — 
a  Httle — to  bring  me  to  you.  I  must  come  to  you.  I 
must  see  you  once  more. 

"  It  is  hard  to  believe  that  you  will  ever  look  on  these 
lines.  God  seems  to  have  forgotten  me.  I  want  to  see 
you — and  yet  death  would  be  a  greater  favor.  If  you 
ever  read  these  w^ords,  I  charge  you  to  begin  by  thank- 
ing a  God  merciful  at  last,  for  I  shall  be  dead  then,  and 
it  will  be  well.    My  dear,  I  am  at  the  end  of  my  tether." 

The  next  paragraph  began  with  the  words :  "  My  sight 
is  going    .    .    ." 

She  read  no  more  that  day.  The  hand  holding  up  the 
paper  to  her  eyes  fell  slowly,  and  her  slender  figure  in 
a  plain  black  dress  walked  rigidly  to  the  window.  Her 
e3^es  were  dr}^:  no  cry  of  sorrow  or  whisper  of  thanks 
went  up  to  heaven  from  her  lips.  Life  had  been  too 
hard,  for  all  the  efforts  of  his  love.  It  had  silenced  her 
emotions.  But  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  years  its 
sting  had  departed,  the  carking  care  of  poverty,  the 

[  380  ] 


THE   END   OF   THE   TETHER 

meanness  of  a  hard  struggle  for  bread.  Even  the  image 
of  her  husband  and  of  her  children  seemed  to  glide  away 
from  her  into  the  gray  twiHght;  it  was  her  father's 
face  alone  that  she  saw,  as  though  he  had  come  to  see 
her,  always  quiet  and  big,  as  she  had  seen  him  last,  but 
v.'ith  something  more  august  and  tender  in  his  aspect. 

She  slipped  his  folded  letter  between  the  two  buttons 
of  her  plain  black  bodice,  and  leaning  her  forehead 
against  a  window-pane  remained  there  till  dusk,  per- 
fectly motionless,  giving  him  all  the  time  she  could 
spare.  Gone!  Was  it  possible?  My  God,  was  it  possi- 
ble? The  blow  had  come  softened  by  the  spaces  of  the 
earth,  by  the  years  of  absence.  There  had  been  whole 
days  when  she  had  not  thought  of  him  at  all — ^had  no 
time.  But  she  had  loved  him,  she  felt  she  had  loved 
him,  after  all. 


THE    END. 


[  m  ] 


I 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

RENEWALS  ONLY— TEL.  NO.  642-3405 

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